The Saga of Dru

Crawling in the wood,

I’m brawling in the hood,

feeling where the ancients once sung and once stood.

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The fire of the children

spoken within lore,

the chieftain forgot what his ancestors saw.

He cast a lot

and he cast another,

the bard sung a sweet song on the deeds of his brother.

The mystic who forged the golden scythe

Came from his layer and begged for his life.

The oracle had spoken

And the fates would inlay ;

All will be forgotten, and all will fade away.

It is deep in winter

And the hearth glows bright,

The community got together and got into a fight.

The grain pit is bare

And the stag winnot bell

The chieftain is poor, and his wife cannot tell.

Her name is unknown among the names of times gone,

She came from the South where the sun better shun.

But living among the goats served her no good,

She praised her husband’s house like no other could.

A warrior stood tall and demanded a cow,

Another made clear he wanted it now.

Then the old hag spoke and all went calm,

So quiet that you’d hear her spin the yarn.

Silver birch as white as snow

Can quickly yield a golden glow.

Yews are as old as the memory of Dru,

But they’d take you early like a weak bitter bru.

The elder had spoken,

a riddle it was.

Few understood and thought themselves lost.

They stood in the hall,

their chieftain looked frail,

he mustered the name Hrothgar son of Hrethel.

The last living son

only ten winters old,

the heir to the chiefdom he was boldly told.

The chieftain died there and then,

His body went cold as did all of his men.

The mead in the horns froze over,

the fire went out too quick for the bellows,

and all became sad that their chieftain was gone,

the magic he cast was now but a solemn song.

They rebuilt the fire

And they brewed more mead,

But such labour it cost and they would barely succeed.

The harvest was bad,

Freyja must have been mad

to have their suffering divinely decreed.

As the old hag spun her yarn,

little Hrothgar raised his palm.

A golden ring hung from his ear, a bronze dagger on his rear.

He called on the house to have no fear,

For he’ll meet with his uncle and poison his beer.

All of the cattle and all of the grain,

Will be shared after battle in return for eternal fame.

Songs will be sung

for lifetimes to come

about little Hrothgar

who grew to be a monster.

A bear man of the sacred oak,

an oath made to Dru and his spirit awoke.

He raged in battle,

Formidable was his skill,

Little Hrothgar honoured his father’s will.