To the tune of The Hippopotamus, by Flanders and Swan. Written by Guthfrith Yrllingson, Melisende the Courageous, Isobel Mowbray and Harry of Eccles, because filk is the only thing that works by committee.
Circa 1997 or so, at a guess
A band of young Ursulans was strolling one day
On the fields of fair Rowany site
They blandished their carrots and drank poxy port:
These youngbloods were itching to fight.
And there on the hillside in rank upon rank
Were the finest of Lochac arrayed.
These virgins and martyrs could not wait to start as
They flung themselves into the fray.
Blood, blood, glorious blood
Trample our enemies into the mud
How could we but relish
Conditions so hellish?
Our tabards embellished with glorious blood!
With youthful exuberance and biting their shields
They recklessly charged up the hill
They had no grand strategy, flanks or reserves,
Formation nor training nor skill.
Their enemy larger by twenty to one
Were trying their best not to smirk
As they calmly awaited the brave but ill-fated
And rapidly tiring berserks…
These eager upstarts full of misguided zeal
Hit the enemy shield-wall in clumps
The heavens resounded with steel upon steel
And war-cries cut short with dull thumps.
‘Till Hrothgar was standing alone on the hill,
His comrades all thoroughly slain.
As his resolve floundered and he was surrounded
He said, “Ah, let’s try that again!”
Blood, blood, Ursulan blood,
Flows not in trickles but rather in flood
Our bodies bisected,
Our limbs disconnected,
We’ll get resurrected and, come next year,
We’ll – have – your – BLOOD!