The Ballad of Broken Trades

Oh, hark! Ye lords of skill and blade,

Of smith and scribe and chambermaid,

Attend the tale of brother mine,

Whose hands were cursed by fate malign.

He tried the forge, he broke the steel,

The anvil wept ‘neath each ordeal.

The butcher’s stall he held but thrice—

He fed the hounds with venison price.

O jobs a’plenty, trades galore,

He left them wrecked upon the floor.

From stablehand to brewer bold,

All withered swift in brother’s hold.

As clerk he stood with ledger neat,

Till all the sums did rise in heat—

Ten goats were lost in scribbled feud,

And Mistress Glanwyn sued for food.

He served as bard (one wretched night),

His lute did snap mid lover’s plight.

Then tried he helm upon the seas,

But sank the boat ere reaching Tees.

O jobs a’plenty, trades galore,

He left them wrecked upon the floor.

From stablehand to brewer bold,

All withered swift in brother’s hold.

The tailor cast him to the street,

He stitched a sleeve to donkey’s teat.

The baker wept when flour flew,

And customers all turned to stew.

Now sits he still ‘neath village tree,

A jobless soul with heart too free.

Yet every lass doth tip her head—

For fools be charming, though ill-bred.