They could not tell me who should be my lord, But I could read from every word they said The common thought: Perhaps that lord was dead, And only a story now and a wandering word. How could I follow a word or serve a fable, They asked me. 'Here are lords a-plenty. Take Service with one, if only for your sake; Yet better be your own master if you're able.' I would rather scour the roads, a masterless dog, Than take such service, be a public fool, Obstreperous or tongue-tied, a good rogue, Than be with those, the clever and the dull, Who say that lord is dead; when I can hear Daily his dying whisper in my ear |