The Traveler's Tale #54 Poem by John Yaws

'ere, mum, I pray thee take me seat-
I'll squat beside yon fire.
An' 'ave a dram, an' piece o' meat,
Afore yer legs do tire...

What's at ye say? Wha' be me name?
Buchanan, tha's enough.
A clan wi' just a bit o' fame-
Our lads are passin' tough.

Aye, mum, 'tis late, I must agree.
Yer pardon, if I'm bold...
Wha' brings a lady such as ye-
Out on the trek, so cold?

Yer right! It's none o' me affair-
I noticed that yer worried...
Yer every move is nervous like-
Yer eatin' as though hurried.

Well, fear ye not! This blade o' mine-
I place at yer disposal-
I'll guard ye wi' me verra life,
Scoff not a me proposal!

Me price? An' ye shou' be ashamed!
The honor's mine, no doubt-
To serve a lady, as yerself...
To charge, I'd be a lout!

I'll see ye safely on yer way-
When coming dawn is pale...
I'll 'ear no more fra ye o' pay!
So goes the Traveler's Tale.
© Copyright 2001 Jo