Then
Redesman put down the cup (for it had come into his hands again), and
reached his hand to the wall behind him, and took down his fiddle
hanging there in its case, and drew it out and fell to tuning it,
while the hall grew silent to hearken: then he handled the bow and
laid it on the strings till they wailed and chuckled sweetly, and
when the song was well awake and stirring briskly, then he lifted up
his voice and sang:
The Minstrel saith:
'O why on this morning, ye maids, are ye tripping
Aloof from the meadows yet fresh with the dew,
Where under the west wind the river is lipping
The fragrance of mint, the white blooms and the blue?
For rough is the Portway where panting ye wander;
On your feet and your gown-hems the dust lieth dun;
Come trip through the grass and the meadow-sweet yonder,
And forget neath the willows the sword of the sun.
The Maidens answer:
Though fair are the moon-daisies down by the river,
And soft is the grass and the white clover sweet;
Though twixt us and the rock-wall the hot glare doth quiver,
And the dust of the wheel-way is dun on our feet;
Yet here on the way shall we walk on this morning
Though the sun burneth here, and sweet, cool is the mead;
For here when in old days the Burg gave its warning,
Stood stark under weapons the doughty of deed.
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