A Song: Hail to the Herald

By Dmitri Skomorochov

Hail to the herald, of green and crossed horns,
Who blazons things argent, and rampant, with thorns,
Who reads the devices like they were a book,
And identifies strangers with merely a look,

Hail to the herald, the greatest of fools,
Painting in azure and sable and gules,
Displaying a field full of lions and birds,
And spinning them all into colors and words,

Hail to the herald, with monstrous voice,
So those standing nearest don't have any choice,
At dawn's morning light, they make their words known,
And then dodge the pillows so angrily thrown,

Hail to the herald, his nose in a book,
When you need a name, he knows just where to look,
Be you French, Welsh, or Scot, he'll find you the page,
And give you a name from a long distant age,

Hail to the herald, the voice of the crown,
She tells all the people of royal renown,
She carries the word of their wishes and laws,
And bellows their praises without any pause,

Hail to the herald, who yells on the field,
Whose voice causes all our bold fighters to yield,
Dukes, knights, and barons all bow to her word,
And midst all the chaos, she'll always be heard,

Hail to the herald, who governs the site,
There, all of the gentry must bow to his might,
He knows all the schedules, he keeps us on time,
And he'll call on the autocrat to keep us in line,

Hail to the heralds, the heart of the Dream,
We keep the world running with heads full of steam,
We give all we can so that others can play,
And we wouldn't have it any other way.

-- Lord Dmitri Skomorochov, herald (at) sangredelsol (dot) org

Per Dmitri: Everyone, feel free to reprint this, publish it, forward it and share it. I wrote it to be read and enjoyed. My shire has already seen it, but I have no problem with people quoting it or spreading it around. Enjoy. (Oct 2002)