The Life of a Bard is Woefully Hard

Hail and well met, friend! Come, sit and have a pint. The ale served in this establishment is dark and velvety and, in the immortal words of, well – me, “the stuff that nightmares are made of.”

Hah! There's the laugh, and I thank you, Kind Sir. 'Tis for your entertainment I ply my trade and hone my craft, though most would deem it unsavory, or at least unworthy of pursuit. Why, I, myself, would heartily agree, but alas, the unwelcome gift was bestowed and has, to my utter dismay, become my lot.

Ah, “How's that,” you ask? Surely sir, you know of the disdain held for a mere bard such as myself – a weaver of words, if you will. A man of high character would surely seek a nobler undertaking – one that would would contribute to the betterment of society and mankind. The worst of carpenters, after all, leaves something to be shown for his labor. The potter, an artist in his own right, creates a useful vessel with his efforts. Alas, my turns of phrase, however golden, hang on the air for but a moment and then vanish into oblivion.

Likewise, the melodies I wrest from my lute, yonder. They bring merriment or sorrow. They invoke dance or despair. But, let the music stop and the spell is forever broken. Nothing remains. When the last note fades, for the briefest of moments, the audience is mine, then the wordsmith and minstrel are forgot as the conversation begins anew.

And yet, each word, each note, each affectation must be flawless in that space occupied by the performance. Precise and pristine, as if His Majesty had ordered it spoken or sung. And indeed, I have had that “pleasure,” sir. I assure you, to perform before royalty is no boon. Nay, 'tis more likened to a curse. Imagine baring one's soul for the highest of the high, in hopes of being tossed a few pieces of silver, as opposed to simply being tossed. 'Twas my good fortune that my eye caught that of the Princess on that day, and my words caught her heart. Even more fortunate was my instinct to hasten my retreat from the palace.

I beg pardon, friend, the rasp in my voice betrays the parching of my throat from this arduous declamation. Oh, no, sir. I couldn't possibly allow such – well, if you insist, sir, perhaps you'll allow a ballad in repayment? Very well, my friend, a ballad you shall have, when the cups are again empty.

As I was saying, it is expected of me to possess a practiced repertoire, fit for the King and His Court. Ready at a moment's notice. What's more, I am expected to pull rhymes from the air, without so much as a breath between lines. “Give us a song of the hills, bard! Sing of a maiden with flaming red hair! Recite me a poem of love!” It's constant toil and far too occasional reward.

Then there are the times such as this, in the courtyards or taverns, surrounded by the townspeople. People who listen. Children that dance to the music with not a care for the import of the words. Maids with flaming red hair and eyes like emerald pools who hang on every word. Friends who fill your cup and ask naught but a song in return. These times, these good people are why I stay this course. If my simple words bring joy to a deserving soul, offer respite to a suffering one – I have, in that moment, a purpose and the means to serve it.

And now, my new and true friend, if you will allow a lowly bard, I believe a ballad is owed.