Joshua Patterson

He paused on the crest of a cloudy hill
Then down through the mist to the town ‘cross the rill.
Plucked at his harpstrings as he rode thru the town:
High strings, low strings sang like wolves and wild hounds.

Folk clapped shut their shutters, huddled chilled by hearth fires
For they knew why he’d come with his song and his ire.
‘twas the Harper of Fisk whose lover they’d slain,
Tho the error was not theirs; on the lover lay blame.

She took different shapes and had run as a doe
And poor Malcolm MacDowell had struck the death blow.
The town feasted well on the harper’s dear love
And he vowed to destroy them with fire from above.

But one plucky lass named Molly MacGee
Stepped forth from her house and struck his hard knee.
“Ye’re not so big with your harp made of bone!
I’m made of flesh and have much better tone!”

The harper reined in, swung down from his horse.
“I’ll not take such talk from a town brat so coarse.
You’ll be first to die ‘neath the power of my wrath.
What gives you the nerve to stand in my path?”

“I’m Molly MacGee, the miller’s sole daughter,
I’ll not stand on by while my people you slaughter.
I throw down my gauntlet tho it’s only a glove,
It’s not my town’s fault that a deer was your love!

I challenge you to a fair contest of skill,
We’ll dance to the tune of the burbling rill.
The first to collapse will be banished from town,
If e’er to return, may God strike them down.”

The harper agreed, put aside his stone sword,
Put down his stone spear, hung his harp from a cord.
“It’s useless, you know. I’ve done this for years.
I’m a far better dancer than you or your peers.”

Dear Molly MacGee thrust her chin in the air,
And fixed the mad harper with a challenging stare.
“Then move your old bones, let’s see what you’ve got.
I’d wager you dance like a drunken old sot.”

Indignant, he bristled and danced a spring jig,
But Molly, she laughed, said, “You’re still not so big.”
He danced in a circle; he jigged in a square.
His feet churned up dust to the rill’s cheerful air.

Then Molly danced lightly on the town’s open green,
But the harper’s grey face had a hot sweaty sheen.
His feet danced the faster, his breath came the quicker.
Every minute that passed his face became slicker.

But Molly, she seemed not to feel it at all.
Her feet flew so sure, did not falter or fall.
She laughed as she twirled, thumbed her nose at her foe.
“Oh, watch out, musician. You’ve injured a toe!”

But the harper, he danced the whole evening long,
Did not falter but once to the stream’s bubbling song.
But Molly danced lighter, pulled her skirts to her knees,
“Come on, you, dance faster if you wish me to please!”

She kicked her heels higher and spun in the air.
He attempted the same with sweat slicking his hair,
But his knees were so weak, betrayed him, ‘tis true,
And his shiny pale skin held a frightening hue.

His cheeks puffed like bellows, his eyes were sprung wide,
He tried with dismay his faltering to hide.
But Molly was sharper, saw his wind was all blown,
Grinned as he staggered with a cry and a moan.

“Ward yourself well, for your strength’s all but spent,
A fool’s errand you’re on; you’d better repent.
My feet are the fleeter with the new strength of youth.
You’re no match for me, you big lout uncouth!”

He collapsed with a cry and a splinter of bone,
Leaving young Molly dancing there all alone.
She clicked her heels twice and shook her head, saying,
“That’ll teach you for coming with your fear and your baying.

Now get along out. We don’t want you here!”
Molly wasn’t much frightened—that much was clear.
He rose to one knee, gave a withering glare,
Then at once he was gone into thick or thin air.

The townsfolk crawled out from under their beds,
Removed quilts from their bodies, pulled pots from their heads,
Trembling, they crept to their windows and doors,
While children still cowered on hard wooden floors.

They all gaped in wonder at the subsequent sight
For Molly danced on and her feet were so light.
She’d banished the harper who’d arrived in a rage.
It was hard to believe for a girl of her age.

So, listen, ye harpers so bent on revenge,
Skirt well the hamlet just south of the henge,
For Molly MacGee is fierce on the green,
Although she has yet to enter her teens.

Under the mist and grey-green wood
With its tow’ring boughs and leafy hood
Lies a village unique in all of the world,
Defended by a fearless red-headed girl.