The Bardlet

By: Aelis Posted on: April 29, 2004

Drinking fitfully one early Daedalan morning,

My hand flinched as I did the pouring,

Remembering one Bardlet that twisted my knickers askew,

Causing me to shudder as if with severe ague.

Rolford was a spotty boy,

Who fancied himself clever and charmingly coy.

A mere eighteen and bandy-legged,

And as a complete fop I had him pegged.

He held his flute most awkwardly,

His voice some cruel atrocity;

He could not dance nor joke nor draw,

And saw in himself not a single flaw.

He often said, "I am quite a dashing man,

With such wit and talent, I'm a one-man band!"

"That's all well and dandy," I'd say with a frown

"But you still hold that damn flute upside-down."

At his novice interview,

(Of which he had indeed blew)

I did not pretend as if with flu;

For the waiting headaches I had no damn clue!

His haiku was a broken couplet,

Syllables of fourteen plus nine,

Of a topic most asinine!

His song was worse,

Of subjects crude and course:

Leering trollops and rowdy warships,

Of tavern grog and curvy hips!

"Lawks, my boy!" I cried out loud,

"Where did you get these horrid ideas

And dare to tout them with a face so proud?"

He blinked at me, clearly hurt and sad,

"Why Aelis, I had no idea they were so bad!

You always told us stories of your rowdier years,

How you drank with Ashtani sailors without any fears!

You swashed their buckles,

You voiced your crafts!

And those romantic stories of impromptu harmonizing

With barmaids without seeming at all that patronizing -"

"Enough enough!" I said with a wail,

"I see right now that with you I've quite failed!

I admit my record's not exactly clean,

But to those topics you still should not have leaned!"

My hypocritical finger pointing at empty air,

And I realised that I was being far from fair;

I corrupted these brains and made them pompous,

Idolising a drunkard who was unfortunately pretentious!

"Oh Gods," I murmured, slumping to the floor

"I can't believe I've acted like such a boor.

Perhaps I'm not cut out for this Novicehead life,

I'm better off becoming some fishmonger's rude wife . . ."

I was two paces left of tears,

When young Rolford who had me endeared,

Gave a peculiar grin and said,

"You brazen old sot, now you know how they feel;

Now listen to Me or else your mead will congeal!

"Take this as a lesson, you liquoured old ninny,

Help restring their harps instead of chiding them silly!

The student reflects the sour notes of their mentor,

So re-teach them the steps rather than give them what-for!"

A pained whimper was my single reply,

And with that, Rolford seemed quite satisfied.

"My work here is done, and I'm off on My way,

And before I forget, happy sixtieth birthday!"

I looked up sharply, but the Bardlet disappeared,

I scratched my head twice, for this was quite weird.

But I soon understood this lesson one could not eschew -

I could only laugh sheepishly as a magpie flew out of view.