Introduction
This poem is based
on an entry in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle of 975: 'during harvest, appeared
"cometa" the star; and then came in the following year a very great
famine, and very manifold commotions among the English people’.
At that point in
time we find ourselves in a society that had been fully Christianised for over
200 years, but as today and more so up until the invention of modern
agricultural machinery, there would have been many continuations of Pagan
practices but partially robbed of their meaning.
From Bede’s ‘De Temporum Ratione’ on the reckoning of time, we know that
Nerthus was the Earth Mother Goddess (until Frigg took over this role) and Wuldorfadur,
the solar logos, was her consort. Reference was also made to the names of the
months: Solmonath (mud month), February when offerings were made to these Gods
by way of planting Sol Cakes into the earth. Blotmonath, blood month was when you
took stock of your livestock and decided how many could be fed over the winter
the surplus then met their end.
The feast in the
rigs was due to folk for harvesting in the lords fields and is recorded in
Saxon law. The drinking feast for the return to ploughing in February is like
recorded.
A failed harvest was
taken as divine punishment.
The reference to
house fairies refers to the Cofgodas, these would guard
a household, and would be given offerings in return. After Christianisation, it
is believed that the belief in Cofgodas survived as the Hob.
A songal is a
handful of corn.
Loaf Ward is the
origin of lord.
The great famine (Anno Domini 976)
Last year in the rigs, we had merry a time,
Lusty summer play, with sheaves bound in twine.
Bright harvest comet, with full moon in sky,
Fine feast of plenty, but dark crows didst cry.
No priest of Nerthus, to visit our fields,
No heathen ritual, to safeguard our yields.
No Nerthus tribute, for next year’s harvest,
No one didst think
of, forthcoming unrest.
In cold Solmonath,
dolly went to earth,
Blessing the plough
share, and drinking to mirth.
All drinking much
ale, as fathers had done,
But not to honour,
the old heathen sun.
The bright harvest
moon, she shone and burned bright,
But little to cut,
for our feasting rite.
Devine punishment,
is god's ghostly will,
Meanwhile pious
priests, are eating their fill.
This Blotmonath
leaves, few beasts still alive,
Cruel long
wintertide, how will we all thrive.
We ask our Loaf
Ward, for grain to be fed,
But wheat chaff and
grass, we use to make bread.
Oh mother Nerthus,
wherefore hast thou gone?
Oh Wuldorfadur, why
hast thou not shone?
The old ways did
serve, in our tide of need,
With rite of
casting, sacred songal of seed.
Without offerings,
the fairies did leave,
Magical powers, they
no longer weave.
To the great mead hall,
greybeard boldly went,
I followed soon
when, my angle was sent.
Copyright Andrew Rea December 2013
