business (isn't it funny)

grief


The lady stands in her bower door,
As straight as willow wand.
The blacksmith waits a little fore bye,
Hammer heavy in his hand.
“Weel may ye dress ye, lady fair,
In robes of deepest red.
Before the morn returns again,
I’ll claim what you have kept.”

She swore by the mold,
By chest of gold,
“I’d rather be gone,
Than give my heart untold.”

O bide, lady, bide…
Through every shape, I will find,
O bide, lady, bide…
Through every turn, your fate is mine.


She turned herself to a turtle dove,
To fly up in the sky.
He became another dove,
Pairing wing to wing on high.
She swam into the burn as eel,
He followed as the trout.
She puddled as a duck, he drake,
Round and round they spun about.

O bide, lady, bide,
No matter how you hide,
Through every spell and shape,
The blacksmith walks beside.

O bide, lady, bide…
Through every shape, I will find,
O bide, lady, bide…
Through every turn, your fate is mine.


Hare on the hill, greyhound at your heel,
Mare and saddle, spinning wheels.
Girdle and cake, ship and nail,
No escape through storm or veil.

She became a silken plaid,
Stretching soft upon a bed.
He became the green covering,
And claimed what had been fled.
All her pride, all her defiance,
Could not stand against his call.
Through every twist, through every turn,
The blacksmith conquered all.

O bide, lady, bide…
Through every shape, I will find,
O bide, lady, bide…
Through every turn, your fate is mine.
O bide, lady, bide…
Through every spell, I will bind,
O bide, lady, bide…
The blacksmith’s will is intertwined.

Was she wae? He held her close…
Through all her pride, her maiden’s ghost…
O bide… O bide…


The Man Whose Head Expanded

The Fall