Chelleigh
06-24-2003, 06:31 PM
As Sung by C’Lest, Bardess of Saint Datura of Her Lady Ysatis, on the Eve of St. Datura
This is the tale, the woeful tale, told from days of olden tales
Passed down amongst my people since the beginning of our days
A maiden fair, with golden hair, with twinkling green eyes, aye! Fair!
Tis her tale we lift in song as has always been our way
Her father lent, his gold all spent, her talents to help pay the rent
That potions would she make until the end of her short days
The noble one, the cruelest one, the name that to this day we shun
Demanded more and more from the simple maiden’s hand
A poison quick, to make one sick, his enemies to cut down quick
So that he alone would be the ruler of all the surrounding land
He bid her go, through winter snow, to the forest where the winds doth blow
The sorrow filled songs whistling through their every bough
So go she did, as she was bid, to find the white flower where it hid
The fragrance of the blossoms sweet and deadly even now
She ran the maze, her mind a daze, her twinkling eyes now a haze
And to the very center to where she found the bell of tin
Its twinkling sound opening up the ground and into the earth she stumbled down
To the ancestral home of my people the Lutin
Her fingers numb, her senses dumb, to keep her awake began to hum
This very tune to which these words today are always sung
The potion made, to her sire gave, and lain down on her bedding plain
To dismiss the visions that through her head did run
An angel shone, with bright light shone, in all its triumphant glory shone
To tell the fair maiden of the deeds her Sire did plan
An arrow true, dripping with dew, flying toward its target true
To pierce the heart of her father so that the Sire would gain the land
Her vision clear, she turned her ear, the trumpeting of a song so near
And stole away the poison to where the tune did come
The flowers there, trumpeting there, as she fell to here knees and cried right there
The poison and her tears seeping into the winter snow
To this day, this very day, indeed if you can find the way
Is the only place where the Angel’s Trumpet doth grow
So mind you well, this tale I tell, and know ye details very well
Before ye go a searching for the flowery death
So ends my tale, my dreadful tale, and bid you once again good ale
I’m bowing now and taking one last breath
I am C’Leste, the great C’Leste, my talents now you may confess
To any person place or thing that may lend an ear
My story done, now I must run, before I start another one
Which I just could not do without a beer.
This is the tale, the woeful tale, told from days of olden tales
Passed down amongst my people since the beginning of our days
A maiden fair, with golden hair, with twinkling green eyes, aye! Fair!
Tis her tale we lift in song as has always been our way
Her father lent, his gold all spent, her talents to help pay the rent
That potions would she make until the end of her short days
The noble one, the cruelest one, the name that to this day we shun
Demanded more and more from the simple maiden’s hand
A poison quick, to make one sick, his enemies to cut down quick
So that he alone would be the ruler of all the surrounding land
He bid her go, through winter snow, to the forest where the winds doth blow
The sorrow filled songs whistling through their every bough
So go she did, as she was bid, to find the white flower where it hid
The fragrance of the blossoms sweet and deadly even now
She ran the maze, her mind a daze, her twinkling eyes now a haze
And to the very center to where she found the bell of tin
Its twinkling sound opening up the ground and into the earth she stumbled down
To the ancestral home of my people the Lutin
Her fingers numb, her senses dumb, to keep her awake began to hum
This very tune to which these words today are always sung
The potion made, to her sire gave, and lain down on her bedding plain
To dismiss the visions that through her head did run
An angel shone, with bright light shone, in all its triumphant glory shone
To tell the fair maiden of the deeds her Sire did plan
An arrow true, dripping with dew, flying toward its target true
To pierce the heart of her father so that the Sire would gain the land
Her vision clear, she turned her ear, the trumpeting of a song so near
And stole away the poison to where the tune did come
The flowers there, trumpeting there, as she fell to here knees and cried right there
The poison and her tears seeping into the winter snow
To this day, this very day, indeed if you can find the way
Is the only place where the Angel’s Trumpet doth grow
So mind you well, this tale I tell, and know ye details very well
Before ye go a searching for the flowery death
So ends my tale, my dreadful tale, and bid you once again good ale
I’m bowing now and taking one last breath
I am C’Leste, the great C’Leste, my talents now you may confess
To any person place or thing that may lend an ear
My story done, now I must run, before I start another one
Which I just could not do without a beer.