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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Fantasy · #2161807
The second Tale; a retelling of The Two Magicians.
Tale II: The Thrill of the Chase

There liv’d a maiden in the North,
As white as any milk,
And there liv’d a blacksmith in the North,
As black as any silk.

On Sunday morn, as the church-bells rung out,
And the Sermon it had ended,
To his lady’s bow’r the coal-black smith
Lustfully up and wended.

The maiden lookt out of her window,
As white as any milk,
And the smith he lookt in at her window,
As black as any silk.

The maiden she stood in her doorway—
As straight as a willow wand,
And the blacksmith he stood on the threshold,
Wi’ his hammer in his hand.

The blacksmith bowed and smiled a grin—
Unto his lady;
And he soon began t’ speak to her,
His voice fu’ o’ courtesy.

‘Ah, well ye dress, lady,’ He says;
‘Fine in yer cloak o’ red,
Now methinks it’s time,
On this fine Sunday,
That I gain yer maidenhead.’

The maiden fair she smiled sweetly,
And scratched her childhood scars,
Soon cheekily out spake she,
In tones which were sarcastic.

‘ O go away, ye coal-black smith,
You would do me wrong
To think you'd gain my maidenhead,
That I have kept so long!’

Then she held up her clean left hand,
And she swore by the mould,
‘I'd never be a blacksmith’s wife
For all of a chest of gold.
I’d rather I were dead and gone,
And my body laid in the grave,
Ere a rusty stock of a coal-black smith
My maidenhead should have.’

The blacksmith held up his dirty right hand
And he swore by the moss,
'I swear you'll be my lover light
For the half of that or less.'

O, bide, lady, bide!
And aye, he bade her bide,
The rusty smith her lover would be
For a' her fickle pride.

She became a star,
A star in the night,
While he became a thundercloud
And he hurried her out of sight.

She became a dove,
To fly up in the air,
He became another dove
And they flew pair and pair.

She became a duck,
To swim upon the stream,
He became a rose-combed drake
And he fetched her back again.

O, bide, lady, bide!
And aye, he bade her bide,
The coal-black smith her lover would be
For a' her fickle pride.

She became an eel,
To swim into yon burn,
He became a speckled trout
To give the eel a turn.

She became a frog,
To leap upon the land,
He became a green grass snake
And he kept her close at hand

She became a hare,
To run upon the hill,
He became a good greyhound
And boldly he did fill.

O, bide, lady, bide!
And aye, he bade her bide,
The coal-black smith her lover would be
For a' her fickle pride.

She became a mare
Which stood in yonder slack,
He became a gilt saddle
Which sat upon her back.

She became a hot griddle,
While he became a cake,
And a' the ways she turned herself
The blacksmith was her make.

The lady was nae morose, he held her sae close,
And still he bade her bide;
The coal-black smith her lover was,
For a’ her fickle pride.

She became a plaid
Which lay stretched upon a bed,
While he became a green covering
And gain'd her maidenhead.

The two of them they married soon,
As grey as crumbled ash,
And the blacksmith's wife as a wedding present
Received a chest fu' of shining cash.

So, my son, let me tell you this--
In the first place,
There is something truly beautiful
About the thrill of the chase.

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