Twas the Night Before Battle

I’ll start posting some old poetry on here. First I want to preface this with the fact that epic fantasy was just about the only genre I read when I wrote poetry. Nonetheless, I think this one is kind of fun and appropriate for the season.

The Night Before Battle -1993?-

‘Twas the night before battle, when all through the land
Not a banner was stirring, not even the sand;
Upon a field in the morning brave men would dare,
All knew that their blood could be spilled there.

All soldiers were sprawled on soft grassy beds,
Visions of loved ones danced in their heads;
The captain in night-cloak and I in my own,
Had just lain down on our grassy throne.

When up on the hill their arose such a clatter,
I sprang up from my pallet to see what was the matter.
Away to the sentries I flew in a flash,
Tore of my cloak and stripped off my sash.

The moon gave its breath to new fallen snow,
Lent reflection of mid-day to objects below.
When what to my doubting eyes did appear,
A host was rising, I now knew dark fear.

On a huge stallion yonder, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be Colonel Crick.
More rapid than thunder his legions they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, called captains by name.

“Now Slasher! Now Sancer! Now Clanzer! Now Vlixan!
On Glenesh! On Lupid, Vonner and Milzen!
To the depth of the valley! To the edge of their walls!
Now charge on! Charge on! Charge on all!”

As great waves before the wild typhoon fly,
When close comes a foe, lift the sword high.
So into the deep bowl the legions they flew,
With men cased in armor, and Colonel Crick too.

And then, in a rumbling, I heard from the field,
The thundering and crashing of sword upon shield.
As I drew my broad sword, and was turning around,
Down to the valley Colonel Crick came wih a bound.

He was shielded by armor, from his head to his foot,
And his hair was black like ashes and soot.
A blade of great length he had slung on his back,
And before such a man skulls would soon crack.

The stars- how they twinkled, high above, how merry!
The moon rose red, the depth of a cherry.
The swirling night winds, how wicked the blow,
Brave men would converge, bright blood would flow.

The horn of a bull he held tight to his teeth,
And his men they encircled his form like a wreath.
My heart, how it shivered to sand in my belly,
I must find my courage; no more legs of jelly.

No longer to feel as small as an elf,
I will laugh when I see them, in spite of myself.
In the blink of an eye they merge close ahead,
No longer is there time to have something to dread.

I spoke not a word, but went straight to my work,
And slew me an enemy, then turned with a jerk.
The flat of a blade swept to the bridge of my nose,
For the battle to be won, our men they arose.

We sprang to our ranks at the sound of a whistle,
Cleaving our way through metal and gristle.
Then I heard Crick exclaim as his host took to flight,
Praise be to our brave men, they stood for the fight!