The tale was written two decades in the past and is in a limerick minstrel style reminiscent of the early lutist mummers who roamed throughout the Celtland Kingdom. Enough of my own bombastism. Herewith, the tale.
My dragon is named Daffyd Gruad
Of his hoard he is very proud
If you steal a jewel
Don’t look for renewal
You will not be needing a shroud
Its not only smoke he exhales
When he’s breathing out in big gales
Melts lead on the roof
Large birdies go “Poof”
And thieves simply leave large ash trails
He has a soft spot for sapphires
They’re something that raise his desires
And emerald green,
He likes to be seein’;
These gifts sometimes dampen his fire.
Daffyd and the dwarves are at war.
Dwarves love to deep mine for rich ore;
And stones of great hue
They deftly pursue.
In these things they place greatest store
while dragons need them for their hoards.
The dwarves set out guards with big swords
In their deepest cave,
Attempting to save
Their jewel encrusted gold gourds.
The great dwarven lore tells just where
A sword can be stuck, with great care.
And dead dragons’ bones
Make underground thrones
And great dwarven Kings will sit there!
But dragons will not just stand still
And try to do dwarven guards ill
And sharp dwarven swords
Have Daffyd’s hide scoreds
And stuck, like a porcupine quill.
So Daffyd’s huge jewellery hoard
Holds many a great dwarven sword
Surrounded by skulls
From dwarven guard culls
And all of their jewels his reward!
Around these small baubles revolves
This story and all it involves.
With dragons a’wing
Some greed and thieving
And virgins and sorc’ry evolves
The events which now will be written.
Somewhere in the hills of Old Britain
Sir Ffrank the rapacious,
For being predacious,
Was denounced by the Lords of the Witan!
So covered in armour all black
He continued the weak to attack
But they were so poor.
He wanted much more;
Rich pickings that he could ransack.
On hearing some rumours, anon,
Of a village whose dragon was gone
He snuck to its cave
(This frumious knave)
And with all its gold was begone!
The small hoard of Thomas the Blue
Unguarded – by dwarves he was slew.
Despite fourteen dead
They cut off his head
And on his cooked flesh they did chew.
Sir Ffrank became boasting and proud
And told of his exploit out loud.
Were more than impressed
And round him they formed a big crowd
Go back twenty years, a real meanie,
By all of the witches made Queenie,
Who stirred up her pot,
Made spells from old snot,
And worse, her true name was just Jeanie.
A dragon that Jeanie just hated
For birth in a field she just waited
And cute little Morgan
Was born in the sorghum
But goblins to Jeanie then prated
The witch in her madness and wroth
Cast spells in her pot and then quoth
“Now Morgan is cursed
As human be nursed!”
And added a terrible oath.
“And girl you shall be ’til you walk
Through Dragonfire without a balk
Only then will your scales
Attract dragon males
‘Til then only human you’ll talk!”
So Morgan was raised as a girl
And learned how to knit and to purl
And often her sister
Would gladly assist her
While putting her hair in a curl.
Her sister was Vicki the good
Who helped in young Morgan’s girlhood
Raised fit for an Earl
But she’d only twirl
At the sight of the dragon Daffyd.
For Daffyd was handsome and strong
A dragon whose tail was so long
With a flame that’s so hot –
The smile that he’s got
Makes Morgan’s young heart sing a song.
Meanwhile, the crude lusts of Sir Ffrank
(Whose hose was unwashed and it stank)
Now caused him to ask
(Taking sips from his flask)
For the hand of sweet Morgan, point-blank!
Sweet Vicki said, “Bold Dragonslayer,
Sir Ffrank, will you please hear my prayer
Although Morgan does cower
A right royal dower
Will surely make her so much gayer.”
“Perhaps,” she said, thinking so fast,
And trying to flabber his ghast,
“A chest full of jewels.
Quite often it fuels
The passions of those thought downcast.”
Young Morgan cried, starting to swoon,
While Ffrank, the black armoured poltroon,
Just glared at them both
And swore a great oath
And spat, but he missed the spittoon.
“For Morgan’s fair hand I will bring
A Dragonstone green, and be-ring
My best chosen wench.”
And being part French
He started his au revoiring.
And when he had gone through the door
Our Morgan arose from the floor.
“Oh Vicki,” She cried
Quite far from dried eyed
“I heard the fell oath that he swore!”
“My Daffyd loves green stones the most
Now soon he will just be a ghost.
The nasty Sir Ffrank
Will come back and swank,
He’ll brag with bravado and boast!”
But Vicki just smiled, “There’s a cost
To love which must risk being lost.
Run, give him your glove.
In battle, your love
May save him from being down-tossed.”
Sir Ffrank entered into the cave
The home of our Daffyd the Brave
In which all his gems
And gold diadems
The walls and the floor line and pave.
Sir Ffrank hid the reason for meeting
Behind a kind jovial greeting
So Daffyd smiled back
Not fearing attack
And offered both tea and a seating.
For dragons are basically kind
They love just to talk mind to mind
Their thinking is deep
Providing you keep
Returning stray jewels you find.
The blackest of knights looked around
His eyes lit on gems in a mound
He planned to do ill
While visiting there, underground.
And Morgan was scared for her Daff
So she left the castle so safe.
Evading the guard
She then ran so hard;
Arrived at the cave like a waif.
And entering inside she saw
The drama unfold on the floor
With glove in her hand
She only could stand
And watch the green dragonblood pour.
From dwarven law foul Ffrank had learned
That drag’nblood by dragonfire’s spurned
And so the first blow
Unwarned, from below
Had split Daffyd’s snout ‘fore it burned.
The blood falling down like a stream
Split his fire and turned into steam
Two small bands of flame
Confused Daffyds aim
For Ffranks scheme had worked like a dream
Defended by split bands of fire
Hurt Daffyd watched Ffranks sword rise higher
Now aimed at the eyes,
There were no replies.
It seemed that Sir Ffrank was the slyer.
Fair Morgan, in fear, gave a shout
And ran to give Ffrank a hard clout
She passed through the flame
That from Daffyd’s mouth came
Distracting Sir Ffrank with a shout.
And the oath that the witch Jeanie made
Caused Morgans sweet girlhood to fade
And there in her place
Was a gold dragon face
And Ffrank, now in fear, dropped his blade.
They herded him back to the castle
And gave him to Vick like a parcel
Who had him all stripped
And deservedly whipped
Then sent to the fields as a vassall.
So that’s how my own Daffyd Graud
Found his mate of whom he is proud.
Sweet Morgan and he
Soon married will be
‘Neath a sky where there isn’t a cloud.
Filed under: limericks