The Troubadour

Oh, I am a troubadour
Upon a dun-grey path, singing,
Singing, I know not why;
For my song is not so new,
Nor yet so long!
Oh, I am a troubador
Upon a dun-grey path, singing,
Singing, I know not why;
For they who pass go hastening
Down the dusty way-
And I am singing, singing.
There is nothing in this song of mine.
'Tis worn, ah, worn to tatters.
Its cloth is stained, yea, wet with tears,
And dried and bloodsoaked,
Yea and scarlet stains its fragments.
It is patched, yea, patched of memories,
Patched of reason, patched of folly,
Patched of wisdom-
Worn threadbare with the singing;
Yet I trod the dun-grey path,
I know not why, and am singing, singing!