The Miscellanies - An Anthology by Dietrich van Jungingen

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Sir Dietrich van Jungingen KML (Naumarian: Diedrik van Jungingen) (1696 - 1787) was a Hansetian writer and poet who was Hanseti-Ruska’s ‘national poet’, in various official and unofficial capacities, from the middle of the reign of King Marius II (1707 - 1719) to that of King Josef I (1769 - Present). He was among the most famous writers of the time, most renowned for his patriotic and wartime poetry; he served in both the catastrophic War of the Two Emperors (1715 - 1721) and the even more horrific Rubern War (1740 - 1760), shaping unflinchingly pro-Haense worldview and sense of the necessity of sacrifice by the individual for the collective.

 

 

 

THE MISCELLANIES

 

BY

SIR DIETRICH VAN JUNGINGEN, KML

COLLATED AND PUBLISHED BY JOSEF KARYNOV 351 ES | 2 S.A.

 

 

 

 

 

Above: The Siege of Helena (1716) was the bloodiest episode of the genocidal War of the Two Emperors. An estimated 33,000 men were killed or wounded, and Josephite dreams of a quick victory were crushed - the war dragged on for five more years and ultimately resulted in a Renatian victory.

 

 

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HELENA'S WALLS

 

The Crow marches on, to Helena’s Walls,

And righteousness follows after him, a noble struggle,

Preceded by justice and glory,

To remove Godfrey from his blood-stained halls.

 

Haeseni brothers stand side by side, united,

Against the perfidious Pertinaxi.

Joseph’s men fight for truth and liberation;

And despite grave wounds, fight with lion-like bravery,

For it is their duty to serve their nation

Against the false Dragon, to end Godfrey’s slavery

Of the stolen throne of Renatus.

 

The streets are filled to the brim with sorrow.

Men are slashed and killed,

Throats are cut where soldiers lay,

Blood is gashed and spilled,

And the wounded slaughtered on this day.

In these times of pain and greed,

Renatus cares not for a humane deed.

 

The tide turns, the heroes are shattered

Inside these perfidious palace halls.

But there’s no time to weep as the Crow falls,

And drips his blood down Helena’s Walls;

 

No, the hateful false Dragon must be slain,

By blood and by steel, it will pay for its crime,

So avenge this defeat; Men of Arcas, rise!

Stand up and fight, for now is your time!

 

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THE WHEEL TURNS

 

Nothing ever changes, the wheel keeps turning,
Nothing new happens on this tired old world.
Everything’s already come to pass before; intrigue’s burning,
And humanity’s still not learning
That a squabble then a war is not the only path.
 
The wheel keeps turning, an Empire stands, it’ll crumble in time,
The ninth Empire; a telling number.
History’s annals will always be caked in the grime,
Of the men and woman who in their prime,
Did nothing but waste away their little lives.
 
The wheel keeps turning. What are we petty men but dust?
We are soon but fading memories, then soon forgotten.
Our minds must be caked in a rotting rust
For we cannot see that we must
Live now because soon we will die.
 
The wheel keeps turning – soon it will stop, for me and you
For we are but candles in the rain
Extinguished in an instant, to be replaced by the new
And there’s nothing you or I can possibly do
But cement our legacy now, before it’s too late.
 
The wheel will not be turning for long, for us.
Soon the wheel shall turn again and leave us behind.
So heed what I say, for I say thus
That we must do what we can now, to be remembered.
 
You must think, write, you must compose,
For a good cause fight, anything I suppose
So long as in a hundred years men will about you say:
‘This man was great, a great man of his day.’
 

 

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THE STALLION

 

See the Stallion, this god of war,

And gasp in terror and in fear

As this knight lets out his battle-roar

And smites his foes far and near;

They fall before this being.

 

Who is this saint of battle, who walks amongst mere men?

He is the Northern saviour, whose never made a judgement wrong;

Who is this clever mind of war, who's beyond mere mortal ken?

He is a mighty soldier, who's praised in every tavern song;

 

So I'll tell you who this is, dear friends

For to the King his talent lends

And for our Kingdom he has served 

And from his mission never curved;

This is a man of duty and of honour.

 

His victories roll from heralds' tongues;

He is this Kingdom's warder

And his loyal men make weak their lungs

To cry 'Aye!' to every order:

At Helena, Silversea, Leuven, he fought as a lion.

 

He's at the front of every charge,

The greatest general of our day,

His feats are many, always large:

The brave Ser Wilheim Barclay.

 

 

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RENATUS DEFEATED

 

Ah, you crumbled, dead, Renatian regime!
Your legions are gone - good riddance to that;
Your memory's ephemeral, like a forgotten bad dream;
No more Kings on the Dragon’s throne are sat.
Your own people rejoiced when you were dissolved
And not by a heroic struggle, but by a mere decree!
You who made Helena decadent and devolved:
I remember your end with satisfied glee.

 

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SONS OF HOREN

 

When the wars are looking bad
And all our allies start to flee
That's when I feel so truly glad
For what Lord Barclay said to me:
 
March, march and raise the shout!
Hear the call, all men of Oren!
Front the charge and start the rout,
Fight for man, proud sons of Horen!
 
If we lacked GOD's holy light -
Which blesses even Oren's poorest field -
If we lacked GOD's holy might -
What heathen faith could be a shield?
 
March, march and raise the shout!
Hear the call, all men of Oren!
Front the charge and start the rout,
Fight for man, proud sons of Horen!
 
If we did not stand and fight -
Which is of course our greatest moral duty -
If we did not do what's right -
What would become of Oren's beauty?
 
March, march and raise the shout!
Hear the call, all men of Oren!
Front the charge and start the rout,
Fight for man, proud sons of Horen!
 
If we had not hearts resolute -
Which they are, they're brave enough for double -
If we had not valour in dispute -
Would Oren have weathered the troubles?
 
March, march and raise the shout!
Hear the call, all men of Oren!
Front the charge and start the rout,
Fight for man, proud sons of Horen!
 
March, march and raise the shout!
Hear the call, all men of Oren!
Front the charge and start the rout,
Fight for man, proud sons of Horen!

 

 

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IS THIS RIGHT, FOR I DO NOT KNOW

 

The sons take up their father's role
The family is broken.
Is this right? Is this duty
Or some treason?
 
In northern climes
The aggrieved gather round a table 
With an undefined authority.
Bestowed by none.
 
With unanimous clamours,
Maybe intent to power,
They proclaim to uphold the crown,
But do they defy it?
 
I forget what is right. Perhaps they are right.
Morality’s glass steams with a thousand breaths. 
I know only the sanctity of law
The neutral power of authority.
 
I forget reason, as all do.
I wait with bated breath
For the clouds to clear.
Or gather

 

 

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THE HUMBLE CHAIR

 

Is a chair a humble thing?

No pig ever made a chair.

What crude beast ever sat upon a seat?

It is a pleasure, a chair, pure civilisation,

Imagined by mankind

To please mankind. 

Why is a throne special?

Man says it is a special place to sit.

A chair that should bestow absolute authority.

So you see, it is not chairs

That are mundane, but rather 

Mankind's majesty is mundane.

 

 

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HELENA, THE FRONTIER STATE

 

Ah, Helena, the frontier city!
With its strange, furless fashions -
Oh how I feel for our senators with pity,
Without carrion black or 'Haenser' passions.
 
Pioneers of an age, trudging for pearls,
Our young men venture up to the south.
Bereft of maidens, they court exotic girls,
Drawn deep into danger's smiling mouth;
 
So, far from the pleasant heartlands,
Far from their safe homes in the north,
They're sucked into unknown quicksands
Which only a frontier state brings forth.
 
Ah Helena, what an odd place!
So far from normal, civilised Haense!

 

 

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THE LUPINE INSTINCT

 

All others have an enigmatic passion - 
It is the lupine instinct, of the randy beast,
The kind that urges man on,
To ensure that mankind is plentiful,
Or to enjoy himself in private.
 
And yet, what is that feeling?
I do not know - how can I know?
I do not think I feel it, this urge
This lusty and supposedly enjoyable urge.
How can a man not know what he lacks?
 
It is unknown to me, this primeval desire,
As old as time and more frequent than rain.
But is it unknown?
It is definitely an enigma, or perhaps simply 
It is some riddle for me to unravel.
 
I do not know my own self -
I am on the unknown waters of the soul,
Rowing towards a shadowed point -
On lonely nights I think on all this,
And it is a great trouble to my mind.

 

 

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A JOSEPHITE REMEMBERS

 

My eyes see yours hung upon the wall,

So do you see me and judge your servant?

My emperor, for whom I bled and cried

See these marks upon this mortal's flesh

See them burn as grass and hurt with pride

As the terrors within my mind grow fresh.

 

My heart still burns for you!

Man of letters, philosopher-emperor,

I serve you still in ideals, with mind 

And I uphold your wisdom so sweet

Though in times I weep, as man is blind 

I weep the most for your defeat.

 

Do not judge harshly, I serve my best 

But I am but a man, and a man forgets.

 

 

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ODE TO THE GLORIOUS SILVER STATE AND ITS INHABITANTS 

 

Oh how I love those brilliant elves
And quite rightly they adore themselves!
So respectful of us lesser races
They even honour us 'valah', such graces!

 

In the manoeuvre they're second to none;
Though they can't recall a battle won,
They're true masters of the retreat -
Those elves, they've learned to trust their feet!

 

And their delicate noses are nobly high 
Oh they love to snort that elven sky!
Pointing skyward, so sharp, so straight -
Hubris, in truth, is an appealing trait!

 

Even the maids spend well their countless years:
Checking their blood, from understandable fears,
Lounging, idling, majestically reposing,
And to any son of Horen: exposing.
 

 

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