The beginning of a classic tale of my namesake from somewhere around 1300, who at the hands of a fell faery got himself in the stickiest of wickets...
True Thomas lay oer yond grassy bank,
And he beheld a ladie gay,
A ladie that was brisk and bold,
Come riding oer the fernie brae.
Her skirt was of the grass-green silk,
Her mantel of the velvet fine,
At ilka tett of horse's mane
Hung fifty silver bells and nine.
True Thomas he took off his hat,
And bowed him low down till his knee:
'All hail, though mighty Queen of Heaven!
For your peer on earth I never did see.'
'O no, O no, True Thomas,' she says,
'That name does not belong to me;
I am but the queen of fair Elfland,
And I'm come here for to visit thee.
Well, it's all downhill from here. Trust me on this.
For the sad conclusion, see:
faeryland.tamu-commerce.edu |
