Roving along the King's highway
I met wi' a Romany black.
"Good day," says I; says he, "Good day,
And what may you have in your pack?"
"Why, a shirt," says I, "and a song or two
To make the road go faster."
He laughed: "Ye'll find or the day be through
There's more nor that, young master.
Oh, roving's good and youth is sweet
And love is its own reward;
But there's that shall stay your careless feet
When ye come to the Sign o' the Sword."
"Riddle me, riddlemaree," quoth I,
"Is a game that's ill to win,
And the day is o'er fair such tasks to try"--
Said he, "Ye shall know at the inn."
With that he suited his path to mine
And we travelled merrily,
Till I was ware of the promised sign
And the door of an hostelry.
And the Romany sang, "To the very life
Ye shall pay for bed and board;
Will ye turn aside to the House of Strife?
Will ye lodge at the Inn o' the Sword?"
Then I looked at the inn 'twixt joy and fear,
And the Romany looked at me.
Said I, "We ha' come to a parting here
And I know not who you be."
But he only laughed as I smote on the door:
"Go, take ye the fighting chance;
Mayhap I once was a troubadour
In the knightly days of France.
Oh, the feast is set for those who dare
And the reddest o' wine outpoured;
And some sleep sound after peril and care
At the Hostelry of the Sword."
A. L. JENKINS.
Jan. 24, 1917.