“The farmer’s lass was tall and fair;
her beauty was her fame
Her suitors came from miles around
to try and make their claim.”
Warna breathed, trying to pace her voice and her tone, making sure to hit the notes clearly and evenly.
“Daily she’d to market go,
selling cheese and butter.
They’d stand before with hat in hand
their troth to spit and stutter.”
Charrin’s face was blank, his head down and slightly tilted as he listened. But Wolfe and Kalynn were smiling.
“The lass was also quick and sharp,
her wit like knives a’slicing
She’d toss her hair and lift her chin
and sing out this reprisal.”
Warna tossed her own head, tapped her toe three times fast, and broke out into the chorus, giving it her all.
“Hie thee hither and get thee hence,
art not the lad for me.
Hie thee hither and get thee hence,
art not the lad for me.
The lad I’ll love is tall and dark
and handsome as can be.
So, hie thee hither and get thee hence,
art not the lad for me.”
Kalynn laughed, Wolfe smiled. Verice leaned back in his chair, his face stoic, but with crinkles in the corners of his eyes. Warna felt the fleeting tingle of having pleased her audience, and joy welled up inside. She posed like a saucy maid, and continued:
“Then came the day, a lad rode in
with kind and smiling eyes
Fair, and tall and dark and strong,
he clearly was her prize.”
The lad I’ll love is tall and dark
so sweetly sang, did she.
