There is a song upon the wind
Which whistles ‘cross the Skye
It sings of sorrow, ladies’ lot,
And others passing by.
It also keens of battle odds,
Of advice you should have had -
It tells to all of drums, and drives,
And a fish that’s really bad.
There’s music to inspire saints
Or launch a shopping crew -
A verse for vigils, valkyries,
And a SCAdian yodeler too.
Now William, King, and Isolde, Queen,
Have caused their laurels to convene
To hear the song the Skye does keen
With dulcimer and tambourine.
The Bardic Arts shall have their due,
They are the ties that bind.
Myth and mem’ry are the glue -
That keep our game defined.
For bardic fires light the way,
Past buccaneers and armors blue.
A laurel now for Lorelei Skye -
This day we sing for you.
Done this eighth day of August, AS 52 -
While sitting on Our thrones at the Pennsic War.
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