Oh, I wish I was an Endeweardian…
I wanted to shoot things. I heard the Hunt was a good place to learn. There were several Grand Master Bowman who usually attended this event, since Endewearde was known for producing very talented archers. Must be because they’re up north in Maine, and have all those trees and squirrels to shoot at 😛
I need to make note of my traveling companions, only because I bounced ideas off of them. I traveled up with Sir Marcus, and Jan {pronounced Yan}. We spent the day passing between us bows and crossbows. I watched the Woods Walk and Target Archery, not feeling competent enough yet to try my hand at either. It grew dark soon after, and we stuck around for the delicious potluck feast. I was in awe of all the feats I had seen that day, and it struck me how much of a passion I had for wood and fletching and all their pointy glory.
On the two hour ride home, I was conversing with Sir Marcus and Jan, and was upset at the lack of songs written about archers, at least that I was aware of. I was determined to compose one. When that conversation passed, the conversation of a Harper’s Past and a 12-part Bohemian Rhapsody had arisen. Then, like a brick to the head, it hit me. I knew what I had to do. Frantically phrases rushed into my brain; I hit record on my phone, and began capturing all the snippets I could manage. Here’s the final product:
Bow-Hemian Rhapsody- Filk by Lady Sólveig Bjarnardóttir
Is this the field life
Is this just practicing
Caught up with scoring
No escape from targetry
Open your eyes
Look up at the prize and see
I’m just a bow boy, I need no armoring
because its aim it high, aim it low
Shoot the arrow, at a foe
Any way the wind blows, sorta really matters to me, to me
Yeoman, just straddled the line
Knocked a bolt onto my bow
loose the string now its a go
Yeoman, rounds have just begun
and now you’ve gone and fired them all away
Yeoman, oooo
Didn’t mean to make you cry
But some times Grandmaster bow men win them all
Loose on, loose on, as if scoring doesn’t matter
Too late, my fletching’s gone
Sent pointies down the line
Skimmed the petticote sometimes
Goodbye everybody, i’ve got to go
It’s time to pack my tackle and head to court
Marshall, oooo
I just wanna rank
More than just bowman once again
I see the little silouette of a deer
Let it fwoosh, let it fwoosh
Do you see the arrow flying
Thunder camp is frighting, with sword and boards a fighting
Little bow man, Little bow man
Little bow man, Little bow man
Little bowman – Bullseye
I’m just a bow boy, no swords point at me
He’s just a bow boy, from a bow family
Spare me your gripes and your pomposity
Pull it back, let it go, till the martial calls a hold
We’ve lost the tip! We always lose the tip. (Not the tip!)
We’ve lost the tip! We always lose the tip. (Not the tip!)
We’ve lost the tip! We always lose the tip. (Not the tip!)
We always lose the tip. (Not the tip)
Yes we always lost the tip
Always lose the tip,
Bow. bow, bow, bow, bow bow bow
Oh, mama mia, mama mia (Mama mia, loose the bow.)
Your majesty has a medal put aside for me
For me
For me!!!!
Crossbows think they can sit there and steal the bullseyes
Mundanes think they can stroll past the field line alive!
Oh Baby!
Get off the field baby!
You gotta get out
You gotta get right out of here
Archers really matter
Anyone can see
Archers really matter to me
Anyway the wind blows
Meddlings of the Minnesinger 