The Traveler's Tale #44 Poem by John Yaws

The winter moon is riding 'igh-
A 'arsh Nor' wind a blowin.
An' likely 'fore the risin' sun...
It shall set in a snowin'.

In ingle nook, wi' 'air now gray-
Fra years what o'ercome 'er...
There sits in whimsey, Lady Brea-
'er thoughts on distant summers.

'ark! wha' be tha' upon the wind?
It sets 'er 'eart a yearnin'...
Impossible! It can't be he...
For 'e's in 'ell a burnin'!

But, 'ark, the sound is clearer now
Above the wind's 'arsh blowin'-
It is, it is! Sure as the worl'-
Yon tune is 'Gerry Owen'.

Ah, to the sash she runs at once-
Though joints now ache wi' pain,
She draws the bar, swings shutters wide-
To sight 'is face again!

An' tha' she does, still guant an' harsh-
The Traveler shows 'is grin...
She dasn't ask 'im where 'e goes,
Nor even where 'e's been.

'Tis quite enuff to know 'e lives-
An' still 'e bears 'is blade,
To know this rake, this callous rogue,
'as many widows made!

Ah, Brea, 'tis sich a bonnie night-
To sit and sip an ale-
Why draw ye near, I'd bend yer ear-
Wi' one more Traveler's Tale.