Original Works

Lyrics and music by Myra Hope Eskridge, known in the SCA as Lucien de Pontivy, Lukian Pontivyen, and Leceabh merch Ouein.

In February of 2013, Lucien was appointed East Kingdom Queen’s Bard. Works written for that competition, and in that office, may be found on their own page: Queens Bard Lucien.

Original Songs

all songs © Myra Hope Eskridge, known in the SCA as Lucien de Pontivy and Leceabh merch Ouein

Angharad’s Song lyrics
Blackbird lyrics
Darius et Alethea lyrics | video
Dreams that She’s Flying lyrics
Embers lyrics
Gauntlets lyrics
Horn Call lyrics
Indigo Night lyrics
Inn and Bard (aka Walks with Kings) lyrics
The Jolly Handmaid lyrics
Man in Black (The Third Harvest) lyrics
Priestess and Warrior lyrics
The Viking lyrics
Wake the Dragon lyrics
Who Will Speak for the Sheep? lyrics

[under construction]

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By Leucum merch Ouein
©2000 Myra Hope Bobbitt

On these hard-beaten walls you are patient to wait
I’ve come hundreds of miles to arrive at your gate
In a nation of warriors they call you the great
If you give me your word I will stay.

I’ve brought thousand men who would die at my call
But they’ve families too, who would fight, kill, and fall
It’s their lives and a future I want for them all
If you give me your word I will stay.

Fly south, to the great Twy valley, and
Ride west of the snowy Black Mountains, and
You’ll find the land of my fathers and mothers of old.

My home to the North is Ceredigion
It’s a well-guarded land with high cliffs to watch on
In the evening the sea turns to gold in the sun
If you give me your word I will stay

You’ve a hand rough from fighting and arm for a shield
But my valleys are soft with green meadow and fields
It’s a fine fertile land and it’s yours if I yield
If you give me your word I will stay

Fly south, to the great Twy valley, and
Ride west of the snowy Black Mountains, and
You’ll find the land of my fathers and mothers of old
And a king, and a castle, alone in the cold

Rise up from your knees, Lord, bring gold from the green
Such grand, eloquent tribute I have never seen
You’re courageous and strong, a man fit for a queen
By my heart and my hand I will stay.

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©2003 Myra Hope Bobbitt

I am a wellborn country lass, my home the valley gay
But once I dwelled a while in court in the fine Spring month of May
In a hall awhirl with pageantry, fine silk, and silver dags
One courtier spoke simplicity dressed in a poet’s rags
The poet was a gentle soul, I was young and so unsure
I loved the man most tenderly, yet longed for home the more.

Follow me to Summer’s end love me as e’er you can
I love thee in such sort as ne’er loved another man
And when you see a blackbird winging high above the hill
Oh, think on me a little while and know I love thee still

He said, “I wish your burdens light, your journey safe and free,
“But I’ll ne’er have a home but thine, nor love a maid but thee.”
I left the city, left him there, my father’s choice to wed
A simpler man, but strong and hale, a kindly marriage bed
And when I dreamed, the poet’s words a haunting rhythm kept
That lifted up my tears and touched my dreams whene’er I slept


A year gone since that May in court and still asleep the hall
I rose to greet the morning light that shone beyond my walls
Hither flew a little bird, glinting dark its eyes
Straight unto the garden gate clutching a small prize
A paper scroll: wedding blessings, fair words from a prince
Grown regal from his poet’s rags yet never married since


My life was good, my house grew well, my children fine and tall
Stewards of the kingdom wide they rose to honor all
And every year, at every Spring, the garden bloomed anew
And every first of May the dawn brought winged message through
Then came the dawn one first of May I stood at the garden gate
The sun rose high, but still no word. I suffered long to wait.


Twilight came up soft and gray and distant trumpets pealed
The message rang out sad and low across the hills and fields
Then winging fine a figure soared, a mote against the sky
No message in the blackbird’s claw, no bliss to loose its cry
I knew the poet’s light had gone for the creature’s flight was free
The blackbird’s voice cried out in the first words he spoke to me


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©2008 Myra Hope Bobbitt

1. Dari et Alethea!
2. Heredes veri Orientis Regni gloriosi
3. Splendidi, magnanimi, et maximi meritis et majestate
4. Populi vos expectant

5. Dari et Alethea!
6. Unite concordiamque supra gladium pugnae
7. Pacem serpentis prodite, tortilis et dormientis, in hanc terram
8. Populi vos expectant

9. Dari et Alethea!
10. Bellator Australis et Nivium Domina
11. Supremi regnatote honore gloriaque reliquum dierum
12. Solia vos expectant

13. Regnatis quod credimus

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©2003 Myra Hope Bobbitt
to the tune of “O Caide Sin D’on Te Sin”

See the sun shining on seafoam and waves
By the oakenwood chapel with heather-green graves
A young woman listens for wingfall on stone
She dreams that she’s flying with wings of her own

See the feet circling and long shadows dance
And the firelight on faces enraptured, entranced
As music and magic find muscle and bone
She dreams that she’s flying with wings of her own

See the bright skylark with feathers undone
Hear the sweet song and laughter that warms like the sun
And see a fine lady leave off her fine throne
She dreams that she’s flying with wings of her own

See the sun coming with wingspan afire
As the phoenix encircles the ocean entire
At cliffside a woman stands windfast, alone
She dreams that she’s flying with wings of her own

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EMBERS (working title)

©2013 Myra Hope Eskridge
to the tune of “John Reilly”

A fair young knight, all plumed in feathers
With silver bands around his helm
Comes on a goodwife all in her garden
And he has ridden across the realm

Her face was soft, and touched with roses
The stormy seas were in here eyes
Her hair was red as firelight embers
And her smile was old as wise

He said, “Good lady, all in your garden
Do you toil alone upon the land?
Have you no husband, nor any children
To lend their aid to your fine hands?”

She said, “Good sir, no I’ve no husband
Though I was courted as a wife
If I had a child, I’d send it fostering
That it might have a better life”

“If I had a babe, I’d send him fostering
That he might have a better life.”

The young knight stirred from off his stallion
Dark with dust from all the realm
And sunlight gleamed on bands of silver
As he drew off his pluméd helm

His face was soft and touched with roses
The stormy seas were in his eyes
His hair was read as firelight embers
And his smile was old as wise.

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©2013 Myra Hope Eskridge

I am a carver of treen for good custom
Serving the crown with my heart and my hands
A spoon or a bowl or a small axe of maple
Are the harvest I tithe, are the wealth of my lands

When trumpets called morning I laid down my carving
Fashioned my plowshare back into a sword
With one kiss for luck, and another for courage,
I armored up; then I was gone to the war

The hands in my gauntlets hold a lover and children
The hands in my gauntlets are fashioned to pray
But I’ll fight for honor, and I’ll fight for love
And I’ll follow my King into battle today

Swords from the West they came on twice our number, and
Over the East rang the voice of our King
For him we were myrmidons, giants, and tygers, and
All through the valley you could hear us all sing

(Chorus, with “our”)

The day brought us victory, ripe for the singing,
Though I returned limping to hearth and to farm
A child at the gate bore an axe made of maple
With one brave salute, she ran straight to my arms


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Horn Call

©2006 Myra Hope Bobbitt

Wolves raise an angry cry, fierce as a raven’s eye
Blue woad and battered shields to know my own
Bridhe strikes the hammer-blow; storms above, storms below
There’s thunder in an open sky so far from home (x2)

Wide calls the battle-cry, who’ll be the first to die
Men fill the scattered line of standing stones
Run like the river down, fight like the breakers pound
Strong as the jutting rocks and the shores of home (x2)

Aye! the Welshmen so they say; two by two they all fall away
Aye! the Welshmen, so they say, so they go
Through the clean-falling snow
High, high, high through the clean white snow

Far away the valley green, oak stand and faery queen
Far away the brackenwood and the nightblack loam
Moonbeams and silver light shadow the forest night (and they)
Wash all the mountainsides with the woods of home (x2)

Strangers and fallen friends, fast from the storm and wind
Lie here in a foreign field where once we roamed
There stands the hunter low, bright now his silver bow (with a)
Horn call and a pack of hounds to bring me home (x2)


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Indigo Night

©2001 Myra Hope Bobbitt

Indigo night shining
Soft and low harp singing
Under the leaves and the moonlight

Strong and wide branches
Reaching high, reaching in
Weaving the wind and the starlight

Clear and bright, shining
Through the night harp singing
Braided light finding the sun

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Inn and Bard

©2005 Myra Hope Bobbitt

Deep in the wilds of the northern march
The winedark night and the starlight arch
Lies the inn at the end of the world, I’m told
Where the breath of Winter stings

Firelight skips in the crackling dark
Boards and benches fill to the mark
There’s a bard by the fire where the cask-ale flows
And they say he’s walked with kings

One night there came a foppish youth
A brace of retainers cold, uncouth
He shouldered in ahead of all
And called for victual things

The company turned back to boards
To their own weariness and words
And his eyes lit on the fireside wall
And the bard who walked with kings

“There’s the man, by my own right hand!
Will you take up sword, old man?”
And he drew on the bard with his hands and eyes
Awash with lace and rings

The youth stood tall, as alive as dead
By honor’s right he could lose his head
But the bard rose slowly, pale and wise
And said, “I’ve walked with kings.”

“I know you, boy,” said the grim-faced bard,
“Your father was a palace guard.”
“Don’t speak!” Said the boy. “Don’t speak his name
With the disgrace it brings.

“Years and miles I’ve fared alone
Family exile long outgrown
My father died — destroyed by fame
Don’t talk to me of kings!”

The bout was met with lighting speed
Taverners leapt to the walls unheeded
Through the smoke flew sword on sword
And writhed like living things

With a whistling dance the bard’s own steel
Runed the air with rack and wheel
Above the din the bard’s voice roared
“Boy, I have walked with kings!”

All at once with no blood spilt
The boy saw swordpoint, edge and hilt
And busy whispers filled the place
Where melee’d drawn its ring

And the bard said, “boy, I’ve seen your best
There’s a father’s fire within your breast
Yield to me here without disgrace
For tonight you fought a king.”

And silence fell in the wine-dark night
In the tavern at the end of the world’s last light
A master took an apprentice there
More fine than lace or rings

And firelight skips in the hall bright-lit
Where still-told tales of folly and wit
Tell of a bard with wisdom’s care
And a boy — who walks with kings.

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The Jolly Handmaid

(to the tune of “The Jolly Broome Man”)
By Leucum of Carolingia
©2000 Myra Hope Bobbitt

Oh, I’m a maid of the finest sort
    Hey, jolly handmaid
But I’m not above a bit of sport
    Therefore take my hand, maid
While Lords and lads are hunting grouse
    Hey, jolly handmaid
I serve the Ladies of the house
    And therefore take my hand, maid

The weaver said my hands were deft
I served her in the warp and weft
The seamstress found us in the loom
And cried aloud, “make room, make room!”

One night I swept the banquet-hall
Where a serving girl delivered all
Among the plates and knives and gourds
That night our service shook the boards

To the cook I once was brought
But there the service grew too hot
And when the horses’ sup was over
I rolled the groomsman’s wife in clover

When the house was all in prayer
My Lady called me down from there
The priest may scold us all the same
She prayed the louder as she came

Now all those Dukes and sons of Earls
Will never see my Lady’s pearls
Though treasures at her feet are laid
They’ll not lay her while I’m her maid!

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By Leceabh merch Esyllt
©2002 Myra Hope Bobbitt

One summer night on the Wessex road, two travellers were met:
The one aswarm in thoughts, the other struggling to forget.
Behold! A warrior’s tale is ended, another tale begun.
As one priestess finds true magic, and another finds her son.

For me, I galloped lightly, undelayed by any load;
Up ahead I spied a traveller’s back a’plodding down the road.
His rusted armor gleamed in spots — was that a dagger’s edge?
One leap and my good horse could find the safety of the hedge…

He heard me not, but turned to count the miles that he had gained;
His weary gaze met mine and then he turned his back again.
Emboldened by my robes I cried, ‘Ho, warrior! Let me by!’
And not a word said he — yet drew aside as I came nigh.

An hour on, I’d forgotten him and stopped to make up camp.
By nightfall all the woodlands heard his tired horse’s stamp.
Ere he could pass, I called out, ‘Rider! Rest here on your course.
Come share the fire, if not for you then pity for the horse!’

He stopped and reeled, from hunger or exhaustion I knew not,
But tried and failed to bring the weary horse up to a trot.
The mare won. With a sigh the battered traveller dropped to ground.
I eyed his tattered gear and wrapped my linens closer ’round.

Silent sat we both, my eyes on him, his on the flames.
My anger flared — he’d offered neither greeting, thanks, nor name!
‘Your armor smells of blood,’ I said, ‘it stains the forest floor.’
His eyes raised. ‘You’re a priestess,’ he replied, and said no more.

I cast a hand of bark-shards to the flames to make them spark.
The scent of apple-blossoms filled the air and lit the dark.

Then magic crackled ’round my robes as spells of warding spoke
I saw it then: a greater danger in the warrior’s cloak.
His eyes were blue like mine, his hair as gold as newcut flax,
But this man was no Celtic lord, he bore a straight-blade saex.

‘Saxon man,’ I said aloud, and startled him from rest.
‘This is no road for you. What prize awaits you in the West?’
‘None that I’ve earned!’ he snapped, and then he would not meet my eyes.
He swallowed hard and said, ‘nor none that my return would prize.’

I looked away and in the silence wrestled my unrest.
The shadows danced. The warrior clutched a sadness in his chest.
‘Tell me your tale,’ I finally said, and it seemed the sadness grew,
Until he said, ‘my mother, May-eve, is a Celt like you.’

I saw now lines of care and anguish that the moonlight washed;
By Her example I was shamed. He crumbled as I watched.
‘Tell me your tale,’ I asked again. How his shoulders shook!
One stranger’s touch, a softly-spoken word, was all it took.

‘My father is a Saxon chief — or was,’ the warrior told.
‘He took me from my village, made me iron-strong and bold.
I grew to manhood fighting, first with fists and then with blade;
My father ached with pride to see the man that he had made.’

‘Then the border-wars called all; long years we fought and gave our best
‘Til the day the howling scotsmen fought like like wolverines possessed…
The stench of blood and iron — their cries of triumph fill my head!
My comrades fell like men, and I alone survive the dead.’

‘And look at me! A Saxon man, as surely as I live!
And yet a Celt by blood — and that no family could forgive.
Oh, would that I’d been butchered with my father on the field;
For none at home will welcome me, except upon my shield!’

The flood of words had ended, left his eyes too tired to weep.
With silent art I touched his dreams, and eased his mind in sleep.

The twittering night drew close; I cast my gaze upon the moon.
By morning I had slept, but sunlight woke us both too soon.
We packed and rode in silence but I dwelled within my thoughts
Of battle-rage and insult, and the blood we both had wrought.

I looked; he seemed more peaceful now, our horses keeping stride.
But still his face betrayed a question he held back from pride.
The next breeze brought a scent of apple-blossoms, and I knew:
‘In the vale beyond that ridge,’ I said, ‘your mother waits for you.’

His startled glance knew hope, and proved my intuition right
He cried the mare to speed, and raced to greet the coming night.
By sunset we had claimed the ridge, and looked out on a vale
As misty-green by sunset as in memory and tale.

A mounted host approached us, leather-clad, no rank nor line,
With one rider in linen robes as heather-blue as mine.

May-eve of Elderlight drew close, her hood around her face.
The warrior fell down to the earth and cried aloud for grace.
May-eve alit. From awesome height she gazed down through the years,
Drew back her hood and showed her face as wet as his with tears.

Then Great May-eve bent down, and touched the man upon his head.
‘Rise up, my son,’ said she, ‘and dwell no more among the dead.’

A cheer went up, as all around us welcomed the man home
And kinsmen circled ’round him, bade him stay and never roam.
Then gazed May-eve of Elderlight on me, of everyone.
At last she spoke: ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘for bringing home my son.’

One summer night on the Wessex road, two travellers were met;
The one aswarm in thoughts, the other struggling to forget.
Behold! A warrior’s tale is ended, another tale begun, as
One priestess finds true magic, and another finds her son!

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©1999 Myra Hope Bobbitt

We are a poor folk; far to the north is our home
Strong as the mountains that fortune has caused us to roam
My father left debts far more rich than the lands that we sold
My brothers are viking, they’ll buy back our honor with gold

Pull hard on your oars, they’re drawing you nearer to home
Hard on your oars, they’re drawing you nearer to home

Now I serve a thegn as a wench, as a thrall to his hand
With every day passing I curse him, his sons and his land
His women are many, and skalds sing with fear of his name
If I were a man I would win my own honor with fame


Here’s one for a big man who laughs with the warmth of the sun
Here’s two for his blue eyes like ice when the battle is won
Here’s three for a boy with a heart filled with fire in his pride
He’ll fight like a giant with an axe and my love by his side


I dreamed of bright maidens who flew o’er a wide Irish bay
The castings have spoken but I can’t believe what they say
Now it’s three score of days with no ships and no men home to me
Oh, that fury and wishing could bring back a man from the sea

(chorus, repeat)

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Wake the Dragon

©2002 Myra Hope Bobbitt

Hydrev llyn lwyrchy
Arian tanodd golau’r lleuad

Canu er mawl y fam
Dawnsio, defro y ddraig
Barddoni, er transffurfio hun y beroriaeth

Dawnsio, defro y draig
Dawnsio, defro y draig cysgu
Ofn dyfod cariad y gallu

Hydrev llyn lwyrchy
Arian tanodd golau’r lleuad

Autumn Lake
Shining silver under the moonlight

Sing to praise the Mother
Dance to wake the dragon
Write poetry to transform the self into verse

Dance to wake the dragon
Dance to wake the sleepy dragon
Fear becomes music and power!

Autumn Lake
Shining silver under the moonlight

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Who Will Speak for the Sheep?

©2013 Myra Hope Eskridge

(C)When dispute threatens the great Leven Loch
(F)And good Saint Robert cries, “och, Meggie, och!”
(G)Lords and Ladies, let noblesse oblige be your (F)teacher
(G)As you gaze on the weakest, the meekest, the sweetest of (F)creatures…
Tell me…

(C)Who (F)will (G)speak for the (C)sheep?
(G)When (F)great houses (C)battle, who (F)speaks for the cattle?
(C)Who (F)will (G)speak for the (C)sheep?
(Dm)Their little hearts break for the beating,
(Em)And their voices expire for the bleating,
Tell me (C)who will (F)speak for the (C)sheep?

Sheep don’t know the terrors of war
They don’t read history… (well, who does anymore?)
Wooly ears hanging low trotting in to their beds
Getting stuffed into cannons? No! Losing their heads!
Who will speak for the sheep?


(Dm) Longing for the taste of tender green grasses
(Em)The cool breeze is the balm for the brands on their… delicate hindquarters
(C) Who will (F)speak for the (C)sheep?


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