The Minstrel

The Minstrel

“My fellow pilgrim , rake the fire
Its light will let me play my lyre
This tune, of such a sweet delight
A ballad, sad, to ease this night....

My song tells of long time ago
When farmer kept both sword and bow
Close to his hand, for he must fight
When viking ships hove into sight.
(These Norsemen came to rape and pillage
Left naught but death and burning village).........

        A minstrel, tired of wandering
A troubador, he'd played for kings.
Was heading homeward to his wife,
No more for him the nomad life.

A chafing strap of mandolin
Caused him to rein his pony in
From vantage point took in the scene
Houses burning, women's screams
Local men all dead or dying,
Women, children, captive - crying.
 
The viking raiders, fifty men, 
Had headed North to kill again
His family home lay on that trail
But on fast horse they might prevail!
He rode the pony fast and hard,
But chance to be in time was marred
By pony's laming - slowing, slowing.
He ran the last mile, sick with knowing.
Arrived at his dear home to see
It all ablaze and bodies three.
His wife, her mother and his child.
His mind was shattered, senses wild
His screams and wails were heard till night
But all went quiet in pale moonlight.

They found his body the next day
Below the cliffs around the bay.
His mandolin, crushed by his side
Was swept away by ebbing tide

The dragon ships soon left the bay
But sailed no more than half a day
When frightful storm drove them aground
And each and every Viking drowned
In all the hellish thunder's din
Was heard a plaintive mandolin
Was this the wind blown by the moon?
Or ghostly troubador's last tune?