The Fee.

A poem by David Rorie

In the heicht o' the foray
Sir Raif got a clour,
Sir Raif the regairdless,
In battle sae dour.
O cleanly the saddle
They ca'ed him attour!

Then aid for his wounds
He did sairly beseech,
An' aff to the greenwood
In shade o' a beech
They hurried auld Simon
The kintra-side's leech.

Wi' a tow roon' his neck
Simon knelt on his knee,
An' he saw as he glow'red
Wi' the tail o' his e'e
That armed men held it
Owre bough o' the tree.

"Noo, Simon, to heal
Is your trade, no' to kill,"
Quo' Sir Raif, "An' though, mark ye,
We dootna your skill,
Grup the tow, knaves! If need be
Pull up wi' a will!"

"But what o' my fee,
Noo I ask ye, Sir Raif ?"
"Gin I live, Master Simon,
I'll wager it's safe!
There! Laugh not, ye villains,
His neck ye may chafe!"

O stanched was the blue blude
That ran on the grass,
Sae eident was Simon
His skill to surpass,
Sir Raif was in fair way
His foes to harass.

An' the fee they gae Simon
The tale is aye rife-
For fittin' Sir Raif
To wield sword i' the strife?
'Twas the greatest e'er gi'en-
For they gae him his life!

Reader Comments

Tell us what you think of 'The Fee.' by David Rorie

comments powered by Disqus