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The Name of the King
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Many songs are sung in praise of kings who triumph on the field of battle and bring glory to their kingdoms. This MIGHT have been such a song...
cello kings medieval renaissance disguise
Artist picture
Drake Oranwood (Eric Schrager, he/him) is a singer, songwriter, and producer who brings modern sensibilities to original songs set long ago and far away
Drake Oranwood (Eric Schrager, he/him) is a singer, songwriter, producer, lutenist, and medieval enthusiast who brings modern sensibilities to original songs set long ago and far away. In the Society for Creative Anachronism, Drake is part of the bardic community, where original and period performances are shared at fire circles and waysides for weary travelers. (The general SCA term for an individual vocal performer is a bard). Drakes persona is an English composer and musician living in the sixteenth century. Drake is currently serving as Queens Bard for the East Kingdom.
Song Info
Genre
Acoustic • Acoustic Folk
Charts
Peak #111
Peak in subgenre #12
Author
Eric Schrager
Rights
2012 by Eric Schrager
Uploaded
October 28, 2015
Track Files
MP3
MP3 3.5 MB • 138 kbps • 3:32
Story behind the song
Music, lyrics, vocals: Eric Schrager Arrangement: Paul Butler, Eric Schrager Guitar: Don Levey Violin, cello, krumhorn, percussion: Paul Butler Song page: http://drakethebard.com/bardic/the-name-of-the-king/
Lyrics
A mighty sovereign did escape His enemies of war. Not quite two days before. Unarmored and on foot across The countryside went he, And not a soul who saw him would Know him for royalty. He for the nonce must stay in flight Till he'd reclaim his steel. But when he rejoined the fight They would feel the might of the king. They would feel the might of the king. As dusk approached, he came upon What might have been a farm, 'Twas in no state for planting, But could shelter him from harm. The woman there seemed not the sort Inclined to take a guest, So in their liege's name he begged A place that night to rest. "Stop, vagabond! Have you no shame? I'll not shed you a tear. Though my stable's yours to claim, I'll not hear the name of the king! I'll not hear the name of the king! "So eager was our prince to prove His fighting father's son, He tore this land to shreds, and yet The bloodshed's never done. "Our farm has failed, like all the rest, Since he took up the throne. His wars devoured my sons and husband: Now I'm here alone." She spoke, every word a poisoned dart, Bitter, hard, and fierce, Without courtesy or art, And it pierced the heart of the king. And it pierced the heart of the king. He slept on straw and bid the widow Farewell on the morn. And blew the battle-horn. "Your Majesty is back! And now, To slaughter them we go!" "Belay that," said the king, "and call A parley with the foe." "My liege," said the marshal, "that's absurd! You've got them! Why release?" "Because my command you've heard! Now make peace the word of the king! Now make peace the word of the king!" He yielded up his conquests, Told his generals to disband. He sent his soldiers home, poured out His coffers to the land. No glory earns a king who lays His father's sword to rust: The nobles and their chroniclers Consigned him to the dust. But in the countryside, his fame The generations cheered: Like a bright, enduring flame, They revered the name of the king. They revered the name of the king. They revered the name of the king.
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