http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_of_Britain
Tristan and Isolde (a ballad)
Our tale begins as it will end,
mired deep in pangs of woe,
pray your hearts and ears you lend,
to hear the tale of the child of sorrow.
Once was a Lord of Ermonie
a noble man, both true and wise,
strong warrior, yet gentle he,
the lord whose name was Roland Rise.
A chivalrous soul, all would agree,
who tended every kinsman's need,
a gentleman of pedigree,
pure in thought, and pure in deed.
Word of Roland caught the ear,
of an aging Cornish king,
who thought to call the Welsh lord here,
so his daughter's finger would bear a ring.
On Beltane Eve, the two were wed,
the merriment went on and wild,
and in their downy marriage bed,
Roland's wife became with child.
Soon after that began a war,
a tragedy that pains to tell,
Lord Rise fought bravely, but alas,
in the battle, Roland fell.
Lady Rise was stricken with grief,
her woes so great that none could mild,
Not even could she find relief,
with the coming of her unborn child.
Thus was a son born soon thereafter,
who would into a legend grow,
a Celtic child born in sadness,
so named Tristan, child of sorrow.
Tristan lived a quite life,
with foster father, roaming Rohand,
into the mists fades father's wife,
and fate lead them to other lands.
A peaceful warrior, became the lad
a student to his keeper's ways
who learned to harp and hunt the land
and gave no thought to sadder days.
When Rohand's tutelage was done,
he led his son to serve the right,
Tristan went down to Lyonesse,
and in due time, became a knight.
From masters of the fighting arts,
strength and character were learned.
From scholars who were pure of heart,
Knowledge and wisdom were earned.
Then came the time when Sir Tristan,
said farewell to Lyonesse,
Searching lands both far and wide,
to hone his skills and brav'ry test.
His travels brought him accolades,
his deeds were famed through out the land.
Traversing distant wooded glades,
loyally serving his fellow man.
Word of his deeds carried far,
to Cornwall's lord, the good King Mark.
Mark called Tristan to his court,
the knight arrived with the morning lark.
Unbeknownst to Cornwall's sire,
what title Tristan had eschewed,
for our noble player of the lyre,
was Mark's beloved lost nephew.
Tristan's mother, Roland's bride,
was kin to Cornwall's lofty throne,
In Mark, Rohand could now confide,
the shared lineage of blood and bone.
Tristan became Mark;s general,
won battles, mercifully and fair.
An age of peace was realized,
and Tristan was announce Mark's heir.
While on a diplomatic quest,
a visit to an Irish king,
witnessed while a royal guest,
beauty to make the angels sing.
The daughter of the Irish sire,
with features praised in songs of old.
In all, the princess roused desire,
the beauty whose name was Isolde.
Tristan brought tales to Cornwall's court,
of the lovely Irish lass.
Thoughts of Isolde haunted Mark,
and this decree then came to pass.
Go thee, loyal Tristan, to Eire's walls,
entreat the just and noble king,
that ye should court the lord's daughter for me,
that she would wear my wedding ring.
To this Tristan did then reply,
I'll leave this night, be on my way,
and 'ere a fortnight's time shall pass,
we'll return to plan thy wedding day.
The Irish court, with open arms,
received Tristan's request.
Isolde consented to be wed,
and leave as soon as Mark behest.
The Irish Queen, to Brengwain called,
and placed a vial in her hand.
Bid Isolde and her new groom
to share this brew, and rule the land.
A potion made in full-moon's light,
stirred with the feather of a dove,
to be swallowed on the wedding night,
and ensure the couple's eternal love.
Next morn departed they from Eire,
to make the trek to Cornish field,
and then, one night around the fire,
a mistake is made, and fate is sealed.
A fitful night of restless sleep,
clouded minds at dawn1s first light,
a mixture grogg1ly took for mead,
seals the ill-fated couple1s plight.
Tristan's eye met Isolde's gaze
and their affections were ensnared,
in Cupid's labyrinthine maze,
their thoughts, and hearts, and souls are shared.
Illicit love was found en route,
their hearts fell under siege
Loyal Tristan could help
but betray his lord and liege.
Before they reached the kingdom,
these lovers both agreed,
That secrecy was paramount,
they must conceal their need.
The nuptials proceeded as was planned,
Isolde became Mark's blushing bride.
And Tristan kept his love concealed,
crushed by the volume of love's tide.
Isolde pined her love away,
and acted as devoted queen.
Stood faithfully by King Mark's side,
and with Tristan stole away unseen.
For years the lover's met in shroud,
avoiding prying, spying eyes.
To make sweet love 'neath nighttime clouds,
and embrace beneath the moonlit skies.
A somber night in early May,
the lovers' crime was brought to light.
Before King Mark could have his say,
Tristan and Isolde took flight.
For years again, the lived in peace,
a quiet life in forests deep.
No seeker came to bring surcease,
'twas only joy that made them weep
King Mark's anger became his need,
his rage grew hot at Tristan's lie.
Love for Isolde now turned to greed,
decree came forth the two must die.
Purses offered, filled with gold,
to those who would hunt them down.
Track them until hell grew cold,
kill them dead, so cried the crown.
Tristan fled with dear love's need,
to lose Isolde he could not bear.
Thus with haste and fearful speed,
they ran and ran for o'er a year.
Alas, the lovers met their fate
as finally Mark's will was kept.
Descended, he, like a giant weight,
and in his vengeance, cruelly wept.
Betrayers! Murd'rers of my heart!
Killers of my humanity!
I'll see your heads from shoulders part,
for playing out this travesty!
A crossbow bolt shot through the air,
a lightning bolt the gods had sent,
missed Tristan's brow by but a hair,
but woeful mark, Isolde's heart was rent.
Am I now done, prodigious Lord,
may my trespass be excused?
A farewell kiss, my Tristan, love,
before I go to join the Muse.
Their lips, together, pressed once more
red tears flow true, deep pools of life.
Isolde passed quickly through death's door,
Her radiance now free from strife.
To his knees, our hero fell,
his love now lost, his heart now gone,
He prayed and waited for death's knell,
that his sorrow should be finally done.
But 'lo, he got back to his feet,
the devil now behind his face.
He pulled Mark from his lofty seat,
Hatred had his heart replaced.
Take up your sword, uncle mine,
who cowers 'hind the crossbow string!
On your Soul tonight I'll dine,
see now your heir, you tyrant king!
Though strong and fierce, as most kings were,
Mark could not parry Tristan's attack.
His armor pierced, his fear astir,
Mark's lifeless corpse now fell aback.
Tristan's vengeance not yet done,
his taste for blood not yet assuaged.
He leapt into the Mark's loyal guard,
and cut them down in godlike rage.
Silence, golden as the dawn,
was all now left, save Tristan's form.
Our hero, trembling like a fawn,
watched dreamily the coming storm.
I am done, unloving gods,
vain goddesses, you vexing whores!
Tonight I join my lady's fate,
to wake with her on Av'lonian shores!
He toiled the night, in cold and rain,
without benefit of food or fire,
so carefully Isodle's corpse was lain,
on their nuptial funeral pyre.
He lit his torch, and climbed the altar,
to rest next to Isolde's cold hand.
Let loose the flame, no sigh or falter,
just a solit'ry farewell to his beloved land.
The flames burned bright and hot as hell,
yet ne'er did Tristan stir from his place.
He gave no scream or stricken yell,
but placed Isolde's lips to his face.
All trace of them the fire consumed
save for their love, which ever lingers,
No relics found in unearthed tomb,
only ballads and their singers.
Legends of ill-fated love,
are formed from tragedies of old.
So ends this tale of tragic love
of Tristan, and his fair Isolde.
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