Outside the walls, near Badon’s Mount,
Where Uther Pendragon’s son — brave Arthur,
Mighty in battle, beloved of his men —
Thwarted the thanes of Hengest and Horsa,
A pit was bored by brave Celtish thanes
Deep into the earth’s black bosom.
The dead and captured sons of Freya
Were cast into its raven darkness.
Bones, bodies, filled the hideous hollow.
The children of Woden wept for their warriors,
Set sail a ship on their behalf,
In full array from stem to stern.
Days of mourning passed, the battle-folk
Favored flocks and fields, forgot the fallen
Slumbering in the bosom of the earth.
Then harvest saw its gilded pay,
Hoary frosts cloaked the morning heather,
Red leaves covered footpaths —
The ninth war-month approached.
Celts readied to see the veil ripped,
Celts readied to see the veil ripped,
Meet their dead, with ale and feasting,
Fires and faery-tales, skull masks,
Whited flaxen sheets, sacrifices, singing.
The Saxons scoffed, they mocked, laughed,
For weaker gods merit no worship —
Celtish ancestors were shamed —
“Let them worship with us in Yule-Tide,
Watch the hunt of greater gods
In chase across the sky.”
They drank their mead, mocked the mongrels,
Feasted to fill on fish and fowl,
And slumbered the mocker’s sleep.
But, waking all, there was a pounding,
Rapping, great wind blasting, at the walls
And voices weeping, shouting, cursing
Lords and thanes within the hall.
All trembled to attend the storm,
Which grew by heartbeat on the timbers
Thrusted thatch from rope and rafters
Fearful Lord Godulf arose and pled,
“We wish naught but well, our friends!”
When he so said, the savage gusts were silent.
Then from the night a horde of whispers,
Clear as cold, and deep as darkness,
Fell on freezing frightened ears,
“We are your fallen battle-friends,
Forgotten in your proud boast-feast,
While Celtish foes feast with their fathers.”
Lord Godulf fell to his face,
“What, my friends, would you have us do?”
Whisperers howled their response,
“Run to the roads, make sacrifices, dance,
Feast with the Celts, be merry ‘round their fires.
Find fellowship, be brothers all.
Bury your bows before their faces
Bring them all into the long-house.
Let their sons become your brothers,
Daughters, make them sisters all.”
The good lord stood and straightway
Flung the great doors wide and cried
Into the night, “Children of Gaul, come,
For shall we now become your kinsmen!”
Then out the children of Woden went
Without their war-arms toward the peace-fires,
Bearing mead and meat and bread,
Peace-gifts, offerings to the Celtish gods.
Saween thus became a holy day
Saween thus became a holy day
In villages of Wessex and Hwicce