Why Paganus is Not on the Field Today
My King I swore a vow that I
Would be upon the field;
To fight within your noble ranks,
To stand and never yield;
But now I come here low before
Your gracious majesties;
To tell you of my plight,
And of my painful tragedy.
At first a soldier’s life would lead
With sword and shield to bare;
To fight amongst the Calvary,
O nothing would compare;
Until the stables were released,
And I within their path;
Though run I may, I stood no chance,
To charger, full of wrath.
Though limp along I still could serve
My King’s mighty machines;
The trebuchet and onager,
To launch unto the greens;
All did go well until the stone,
Which should have gone ahead;
The arm it broke, The weight had won,
My leg the target stead.
Though still commit to serve my King
A bow I did acquire,
Was stationed on the castle wall,
Below the holy spire;
All did go well till noon was struck,
The bell it lost its hold,
It flew across the air until
My head to knock me cold.
The blow would be enough but no
The bell had hit me hard;
It pushed me from the castle wall,
I fell before the yard;
This would have been enough for he,
Who landed in the grass,
But stead for me, a merchant who,
Was selling panes of glass.
And now my legs are broken,
And my arms a bloody mess;
A fractured skull, and bruised ribs,
Plus more than I assess;
Yet still intend to serve My King,
Though only weapons bare,
Are nothing more, than simple quill,
My chariot’s a chair.