Poor old, poor fellow
Wanders into blackened Inn
That merc'less storm blew him.
Glad he is, for thirst he has
Though quenched from pounding rain,
His heart has sought a diff'rent sort.
Felicis-feeling; overwhelming
And toe-bare, he goes a-hobbling
To set his stick and cloak to rest.
Sallow-faces, flick'ring shadows,
The candles are silently weeping
Submissively melting, as if in warning
And, for a moment,
Ev'rything is still.
Tankards find the oak beneath them,
Fiddler notes: "the voices hang from silence
- as tapestries from the ceiling",
For there's a thing hopelessly-woeful
About the dripping spectre
That shames the metal in his pocket.
Veiling mists of smoke subside
Allowing a strangely lunar man,
Though dark is fallen, has light about.
Ergo from shade it's plain for all:
Unsightly hairs of wayward flock
Rest upon dishevelled self,
Thus a rancorous smell is imminent
And thus he is not welcomed.
'Las, needless should fiddler go count to four,
Does poor old, shepherd fellow
Pass t'other door.