The Writers' Circle

BALLAD


Go saddle me the black black steed
For I am going on a long long journey
Go wipe away the tears that roll
Across brawny cheeks of gypsie lassie.

Fifteen well made men going on their steeds
To get their brides leap over the strand
The brunt hills in search of a namer
Drying fast to justify conscript of land.

Twilled with a broach and a ring wintry
The death stalks the hill with sickled moon
The leaden sheen on the steed's back
Has turned the night's face into a roon.

Late late yesterday I saw the moon
Full bodied like a new sickled maned
The death will stalk these streets tonight
And am afraid of downy owl's nickled bane.

Come on fair ladies hang your hair down
Over the fair head over the abordour
The fifteen men have gone to castle waste
And along came the death to devour.

Go saddle me the black black steed
The merry castle keep has hovelled a cry
Though death stalks every haste and waste
And brawny cheeks of gypsie have gone dry.


Durlabh Singh.