He faced the few who paid the pence to hear the storied melodies to be sung - smocked weather-beaten farmers and moneyed tradesmen, all tavern patrons in search of evening's entertainment; and among them mixed a couple of snag-toothed ill-kept hags, and a pot-bellied drunken squire. "Ahhh tis be," he sighed. Then in an aging voice he told of the tunes to be sung. His crinkled laughing eyes were shining with the thoughts of merry tunes, dimming with sadness as mournful passages flowed through his thoughts.
The balladeer paused. Then he lifted a large leatheren sack from the top of his meager possesions on the side table. Slowly, but carefully, he removed a well-crafted lute from inside the leather case; the wood was polished in deep dark brown, brilliant to the sight; the strings silky and smooth, ready for the deft touch of the musician.
The minstrel passionately lifted the lute and carefully arranged its form to the order of correctness; the pear-shaped body was crooked in his left arm and the long fretted neck was held with the light grasp of his left hand; the long thin fingers placed on the strings prepared to set the scales of the forthcoming melodious notes. The right hand was ready to strum the airs of music.
few notes were plucked as the balladeer sounded the correct tone to the strings. After a moment or two he faced his audience once again. He called out in a low, but commanding voice, "Listen my good friends; listen to the lamenting 'Song of Birdie McBride'. It is a sweet, yet sad story of ages past, way before your time; the words tell of eternal love and promise of an innocent girl, with the pretty name of Birdie McBride: Yet her love was cut short in its prime, poor wee lass." His voice saddened as he told that the tale's bitter end will be of lust, death and eternal wandering. He continued by telling his listeners that the melancholy airs of the song will flute into the eternal mist; the notes will course in mornful rhythm as the ballad will haunt the soul as it tells its tale.
"As the spirit of Birdie McBride wanders through the dismal moor. her ghostly voice lifts up a lament... 'My bones, where be my bones.. Tis, Christian ground to be laid to rest..."
The words of the mounful air told of the fair young maiden. 'Birdie McBride, dear gal,' was a strong-boned lass, fair in features and golden brown in hair. Always portrayed with a smile on her sweet lips; her laughing eyes crinkling in the happiness of her youthful being. She was always seen clothed in the simplicity of a peasants's dress; the coarse spun wool covered the blooming of her youth, hiding the contours of a growing woman. The long-sleeved gown, gray with a touch of red in colour, bound at the fullness of her waist, told of her modesty.. and the clogs on her wide-toed feet to the beribboned bonnet that allowed a peek of her shining hair, spoke of a simple life.
Birdie McBride's father was a crofter, tenanted to the land; and her mother was dutiful woman who gave her love to her children and shared her chores with the needs of the land. It was for both a twelve hour daily chore which enabled them to pay the rent due and to have enough for the needs of the house, with a coin or two for the rare bit of luxury.
Birdie McBride was spoken for by a rough hewn youth; christened by his endearing kin with the prophetic name of Stephen; his folk were pleasant neighbors who tenanted the nearby farm. Their fields were side by side and together they tended the demanding needs of their lands. And, on the rest day of the lord walked together to the chapel to hear the word of divine holiness.
Stephen and Birdie shared the toil of the fields with their kin; their tiring work laboured from the crow of the rooster to setting of the sun, but a glimpse at each other eased the burden. When the youths were at a momentary rest from their chores under the shade of a spreading willow tree, there was a whispered word or two that spoke of simple endearing friendship.
The fair lass danced around the maypole held in the brawny arms of her beloved Stephen: Together they watched the jugglers and acrobats, tossed the wooden rings, and enjoyed the taste of meat pies at the fairs; their rough hands were held as they sat and listened to the words of wandering minstrels around roaring camp fires: And in the full of the moon their eyes searched their affection and eager lips met. Their love was seen by all, and the time of the sacramental blessing of union of the two was drawing near.
"The ghost of Birdie Mcbride wanders through the moor, Lamenting cries of woe in its vanishing through mist...
The first squire of the land was given the crown rights to the land by the reigning king for service to monarch in the many battles to secure the throne. Lord Dufferin gave his duties of faith to the blessed honour of the Almighty by the annointment of a chapel in the name of the holy one. He was known a good man to his wife, the Lady Matilda, and good father to his heir apparent; but, alas, they were not blessed with other children as the difficult labour of the first-born had torn her womb.
Lord Dufferin was fair in his ways towards his tenanted farmers; when their labour was needed in building his manor house, he allowed them time to tend to the needs of their land. The good squire was equally fair in his rents, taking what was needed to pay his crown's taxes and for the upkeep of his manor life. He saw to the repairs to their cottages, and when needed, thatching the roofs with new straw. But, woe to the tenant who didn't meet the due date of rent; the nightly visits of his baliffs did their duty, and a hand-pulled cart, filled with meager possession and bairns creaked along the paths.
"Her lament is for a field, where a plants and herbs grow. Her lament is for meadows, where plants grow."
Lord Dufferin, in time, was called to the Creator in the forty- fifth year of his age; wounds, in the service of the king which caused disease and inflamation, weakened him, and in one feverish night he cried out his final sound. Lament was called out and his kin paid their respects in the appropriate manner; his tenant farmers, ceased their work in their fields, doffed hats, and stood in respect at the tolling of the chapel bell.
His heir apparent took up the duties of the squiredom in the fancy of his dandy ways. Lord Dufferin, the Second, was reknown as compul- sive gambler, alway in debt to his losses; womanizer he be with a dainty trifle to tempt a lovely damsel for the favour of couching. But he had one flaw, his cursed height which demeaned his stature; five foot-six was measured out to him. His feet, under fanciful dress, was always shod with high-heeled pumps that increased his height by an inch or two.
Percy was his blessed name and the name Percy was feared by all; his widowed mother laboured to to stop his excessive gambling and womanizing, but to no avail. His tenants feared the name as the rents increased to meet his debts; and the creak of the hand cart grew louder. Young lasses, daughters of the landed, were a fancy to his disgraceful pleasure-loving appetite; but within time the doors of the renowned were slowly closed to him - only bawdy girls of the taverns and scullery maids served him... and the forced attention upon an innocent peasant lass added to his pleasure.
"Her chamber is an abode that brings forth a possession. Her lament is for a palace, where length of life grows.
Service to the manor of Lord Dufferin was a honoured task bourne by the daughters of the tenants; a need in the time of rising taxation. It was a fearful task under the eyes of the dreaded Percy; only the presence of his mother prevented the feared lust of her son by scur- rying away a frighful girl to the service of a proper household. But age with the slowing of her wits saw many a girl driven from the manor house raped of their virgin soul. And, many an innocent lass, in the passing of time, was sent to cousins to bring forth fruits of the lord's loins seeded during the moment of shame.
Birdie McBride caught the attention of the head butler of the manor of Lord Dufferin, and within time saw service under his employ. The good lass attained the post of personal maid to the aged Lady Dufferin and Birdie's attention to her duties was appreciated. The post offered comfort and attention from the grand lady, with an equally good wage.
But, to Percy, the fair girl was only a tempting morsel to be overcome and mounted, but only the presence of his mother prevented the victory of his campaign. Guise failed him in the ensued months and he was driven with abandonment to complete the conquest. Nothing deterred his debauched mind as he schemed a plan that would defy his mother's watchfulness.
It happened that one fateful day when the night maid fell ill to a flux, and Birdie McBride assumed her duties. Lord Percy heard of the illness and of the night duty of Birdie. He rubbed his hand in glee and thought of the end of the campaign... and his loins hardened and ached in its sexual need.
"Like a lament for a soul that lifts up to a master; lifts up for a lament..."
A pull of the silken chord sent it ominous tolling at the night's eleventh hour; the hand of Percy Dufferin tugged hard at cloth deman- ding the attention of night maid. Birdie McBride heard the summons and with haste she prepared herself for her duty. She looked with dread as the white metal of the bell board indicated the call of the lord of the manor. A flickering candle was in her hand as she trod the winding staircase to the upper chamber to the room indicated. Trepidation was etched in the lines of her face as he made her way to the bed chamber of Lord Dufferin. Then a knock of the oaken door...
"T'was many a year ago..." as the balladeer spun the tale. He sang out in a harsh, yet sorrowful, tone of that fateful night. The half- dressed Percy opened the door to the call and in lust drove poor Birdie Mcbride within his bedchamber... The sound of struggle, along with the tearing of cloth, was heard... but was drowned out by crackling of fire as the thrown lighted candle spread its devouring flame to the velvet curtains; the draught of the air spread the tongues of the yellow and flickering blue blaze swiftly throughout. Dense smoke chokenly covered the struggling bodies; the canopy of shame turned into a bier of deliverence and redemption....
...and from the charred and cursed ruins of the manor house, on the night of a full moon, the haunting ghost of Birdie McBride glides like thistledown across the forebidding moors, calling out...
"My bones, where be my bones..."
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