Song of Gibb (in Heroic Quatrain)
The coldest winter’s night calls for this tale Hearken, my dear friends, so ye may know What troubles make my voice sound thin and frail. Softly whisper lute; hear my words of woe:
Born in the fair land known in Gnome refrains, Those verdant dales of far-off Rivington, I wand’red with youth’s ease in my domain As the sole heir of good Lord Gibbington.
A gnomic lad was I, a bloss’ming seed Trained in the sacred arts of music, dance; I stepped the quadrille while trilling my reed And had the lasses blushing at a glance.
Until, alas, a serpent stung our lord My good Father. A slithering counselor With poison in the form of a whispered word Gained confidences ne’er dreamt of before.
He plucked our flowers till naught was left save stalk And plucked upon the magic lyre of state; All the while grew in me a love for chalk Drawing scenes of what I hoped would be his fate.
At last I alone protested with a curse; In recompense I was exiled for life. I roam’d with empty heart and empty purse And in my eyes, naught but burning strife.
For years I wand’red and the grey dust clung To cloak and face and golden locks turned hoar; For bread and board I stole and fought and sung And learn’d new trades unworthy of a lord.
Return I must as rightful lord and son Alone by crooked path with footsteps slow To claim the magic lyre of Rivington Thus ending, not singing, my tale of woe.