The Squire's Lament
(Celtic Buried Rhyme)
The time grows short, he hurries 'round
The battle ground with mended hilt.
The fighting has drawn to a halt;
'Though not his fault, he bears the guilt.
His lord assails him with a stare--
How eyes do glare--'though he makes haste.
The armory was quickly packed;
Who knew it lacked the part he chased?
A kindly soul advanced a clamp;
His brow grew damp, his hand did shake
As he affixed it to rattan
This fighter's man, for his lord's sake.
The erik wide his welcome heard,
A cheerless word; he answers naught.
He takes what comes for good or ill
And bends his will: a squire's lot.
--Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler
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