Here is a poem about the nomadic life lived by some wandering minstrels, or troubadours, across the world. It’s not an existence for everyone, but there is a certain romanticism to it. Rebel Voice has heard that girls like the guitar players. But was it true that for many years they also loved to spend time with a fiddler, even if he was a rogue?

There are many legends attached to such musical rakes. The following ode is but one tip of a weathered hat to a melodic life on the hoof.

The Ballad of Mossfree

 

Talking philosophy with banshees and ghouls

Bedding fine women who like to break rules

Fighting with pahals with small narrow minds

Teaching some manners to help knots unwind

 

Rambling by hedgerows with roses in tow

Rolling in heather with no place to go

Whiskey on Sundays and porter the rest

Waking in strange beds beside heaving breasts

 

The outlaw, he sings his own sweet tune

Nature an orchestra, his spotlight the moon

His dreams for company, music his food

The mountains his chambers

His bedclothes the wood

A shadow in time, just misunderstood

 

Ignoring society and bureaucracy

Damn all the red-tape, roll on anarchy

Down with square order and economy

To hell with the chains for he will live free

 

The life of a troubadour, a bold rapparee

Taking off blinkers for the real world’s reveal

Throwing off shackles to roam o’er the sea

As spirits now footloose with hearts fancy-free

 

The outlaw, he sings his own sweet tune

Nature an orchestra, his spotlight the moon

His dreams for company, music his food

The mountains his chambers

His bedclothes the wood

A shadow in time, just misunderstood

 

At gatherings you’ll find him where fiddles are bowed

Snug by the fireside he’ll sing you Sean-nós

Wanting for nothing, contented in time

Floating on fine songs, kept up by fine wine

 

And when the night ends and the stars go to bed

He’ll sing you some more and he’ll sleep when he’s dead

For soon we must rise to trek slowly home

Yet his arms are now full for he’s seldom alone

(she plays the harp you know)

 

The outlaw, he sings his own sweet tune

Nature an orchestra, his spotlight the moon

His dreams for company, music his food

The mountains his chambers

His bedclothes the wood

A shadow in time, just misunderstood

 

And so shall he wander, for wisdom he seeks

His bones they do rattle, his knees they do creak

But his elbow bends easy and his heart is still strong

His furrow’s as deep, yet just not as long

 

So, when he leaves you to go on his way

He’ll rest by a soft hedge and there pass away

To drift in the sweet night from this silent place

‘Neath a light coat of frost with a smile on his face,

Slán libh a chairde

 

The outlaw, he sings his own sweet tune

Nature an orchestra, his spotlight the moon

His dreams for company, music his food

The mountains his chambers

His bedclothes the wood

A shadow in time, just misunderstood

A.D.

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