Category: Benjish literature

A wandering minstrel found one day he could not play his lute.
He strummed and twanged and plucked the strings, but ever were they mute.
A maiden came and asked if he might sing a pretty song.
“Sweet maid,” said he, “I’m sad to say my voice is not too strong.”
“Oh come,” she said, “strike up a tune, for I know that you can.
I saw you singing yesternight in front of every man.”
So he, abashed, took up his lute and then began to sing,
And though his voice was loud and clear, the lute said not a thing.
“O sorry man,” the girl exclaimed, “you must have broke your lute!”
“Oh no,” said he, “that cannot be, its strings are resolute.”
The wondering minstrel tried again, he tried to play a round,
But still the stubborn instrument refused to make a sound.
“Well, I declare!” the maiden said, “Here, let me have a try.”
Her nimble fingers plucked the strings and then they gave a cry.
“Dear minstrel friend, it seems to me you’re needing some technique.
Now watch me closely, and I’ll show you how to make it speak.”
The minstrel watched indignantly while she the lute did play:
She played on it three galliards, one pavane and tuneful lay.
“Enough! Enough!” the minstrel said, “I know technique full well.
It’s clear to see that this must be the workings of a spell.”
“A spell!” she shrieked, and dropped the lute, a-clatt’ring to the floor.
“A spell!” he cried out fervently, and scared her even more.
“Sweet maiden, I implore you, go and find this evil man!
Go and find the wicked wizard who has caught me in his plan!” Read More

One morning as the sun came up,
Before the flowers opened,
Methought I saw a visage dim
Belonging to some long-lost friend,
But then it vanished in the wind.

Oh! the crags and the clefts in the mountains of vainglory.
May no one ever come this way to tell the sage their story.
For he who prides himself
Will never hear.

I stand upon the shores of time,
Look ‘cross the raging ocean.
The other side is none too bright;
Though dimmed by glory’s golden light,
The ages ever roll along.

Their ancient knowledge takes me back
To centuries forgotten.
The tongues of yore bring life again
To men who in their graves have lain
Full many years, and even more.

Oh! the crags and the clefts in the mountains of vainglory.
May no one ever come this way to tell the sage their story.
For he who prides himself
Will never hear.

A watched pot never boils, they say;
Perhaps that saying’s true.
I never stick around to see
(That proverb makes no sense to me);
I’d rather spend my day with you.

Full many have passed from this earth,
They lived, they loved, they died here.
Think not that you’re the best to live,
But rather to your fellows give;
Allow your pride to disappear.