Mallon and Langgerane
by Andrew Austin

        Mallon, gentle Mallon,
                sat in the summer's shade.
        At one side lay his book of verse,
                at one side lay his blade.

        He was a peaceful man at heart,
                so reverant, good and kind.
        The townsmen, they all loved the lad,
                as fine as you could find.

        He's never harm a soul, not he,
                was not that sort of boy.
        He liked to wander midst the trees,
                ah, he believed in joy.

        But on this day a fiend had come,
                a brute called Langgerane,
        A vile, vicious villian
                whose delight was causing pain.

        Though Mallon tried to pacify,
                to reason with the Dane,
        "I want the people's riches
                and their heads." quoth Langgerane.

        And so the townsfolk gathered
                by the grassy woodland glade,
        To watch the twosome fight it out,
                and oh they were afraid.

        "Mallon is not warlike,
                he's a simple boy of song,
        And soon we'll see him slain." They said;
                the rue ran through the throng.

        The cartsman whose grim job it's be
                to cart away the dead,
        He heard the things his neighbors said
                and sadly shook his head.

        And Langgerane approached the glade
                with sword and shining shield;
        He laughed "You townsman shall all pay
                when I have won this field!"

        "I'll take your daughters and your wives,
                your money mine shall be!"
        "That may be so," good Mallon said,
                "But first you deal with me."

        So Mallon rose from where he sat
                beneath the woodland shade,
        And strode upon the field of honor,
                grasping hard his blade.

        The clash of ancient sword began
                and echoed through the sky.
        The townsmen watched the warfare,
                wept "Our champion, he shall die."

        "We see his face grow taunt,
                we see him sag with every blow,
        The shield doth crack, the fight is lost,
                the Dane will lay him low."

        A sudden crash, a mighty yell,
                a ghastly cry of pain...
        The fatal fight was finished then,
                one fighter fallen slain.

        The cartsman, he but shook his head
                and trudged upon the field.
        He hoisted up the vanquished one,
                retrieved the sword and shield.

        No lament went amoung the crowd,
                but joy beneath the sun,
        For Langgerand the Dane was slain,
                and gentle Mallon won.

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