A Scrambled Song by Thorin Tatge

Bored was the rowan knight that shields the wounded pail;

And loud the fields on the feasts, which ravens cried were cruel.

Saying, “Cold water, never clear, will clean your wounded beck,

Which makes the nun of the Westmorland hail thee, but can the sound.”

So wind, wind, your stallion’s mane til’ his redhead turns in the fly,

And the bright falls star the rider, and the behind of the moon goes by;

And was the pail clear as the shadows mooned him passing by?

As he heard the cries of the wereowlet below the starry hills-

Saying, “How come you ride for here, and why do you wear whey?”

I seek the windy Witch of the West that dwells by thee, mere land Moor.”

Thee break, thee buy near Ullswater, and weigh its misty fern-

The water lay in the cleft ‘til Kirkstan threw the winning pass.”

He said, “Ye lie, my good brindled hound, rest on my gray hawk’s down,

And thee, Phil, must dismount and walk, for I may graze thy steed.

Answer ‘Here’ when I call you, but come swift; and thee, my horn,

Serve me the best air, son; you will rise, for of all this fear, I’ll mourn.”

He’s born to the water shield, and it’s rowing down the brim,

And the goldenrod lake has what the cast might yield to see him in.

And, fast fleets from she and she, the rose lake then went wet;

The form, half-fair, of a body mare, with one black maiden’s jet.

Bye!” he sighed loud and shrill, ‘til his steed was long and blue;

High overhead and swiftly did he ride; the gray hawk flew,

Saying, “Fetch my jet and hound me well; brindle the coarse black mare!

Stoop, my maiden and stroke me: the gray hawk! And bring good fare!”

She said, “Sword, lay down! Sheath the rowan! Shield thy silvery prey!

I see the four briny, bloody, wounded floes in the field that you’ve been by.”

And she stood around in a velvet chain bound with a silver gown of blue,

And once and twice again, she’s lip-kissed his round pail three times.

He lay arms in with her golden wounds, and his fast full rod she’s bound.

And his son hailed him with the risen day, high and in the sound.

And she said, “Heal your hawk and hound your good gray hand with a brindled ride!

There’s none who can land more witches’ harm than the west lane of the night.”