Bardic Verse: ‘The Curse of Camping' by Milady Nelly Iverson

A trip to take
Our trio wished,
To the world full of wonder

West of our home. Our shire’s story To see for ourselves, Of mystery, magic and More of the same. We wanted and wished for The weather to bless us, We looked with great longing For low winds and high heat. Our planning was perfect We all presupposed, Though fully fallible We felt before long, With tent and titillation Our trip started out. Until a rather minor misstep Materialized on the way. For controlling our carriage, Continue I must. Such studies my friends Saved had for later. To fight such a strain, I swallowed hard. And half-day after Arrive we did. Museum of magic And mysteries we saw. Before sandman with sleep Shut our eyes. Waking we hurried Whisking away. Mostly my fears Made that be. For I felt wrong Fearing to drive Hoping that home Held salvation. To hurry we tried though Tired we were. But the worst was still Waiting to come. Not wanting to tarry I told the others If they did not need it No stop would be made. The fear that I felt As I flashed my eyes At my two mates Making z-s both, To write down in words, I wish I could do To properly tell of My terror that drive. Though they could not drive There was something to do My trust in myself Was minimal. My wellness I knew was Wasting away. The closer we came to Our Capital - home. Driving that distance I did know I shouldn’t, But luck was with us That write this I can. To save me from sleep Since my friends could not Nor further my focus On flying our way. Somehow our feet still We set down at home. And timely the two woke To take me inside. Feverish and feeling Funky and painful The few weeks following Fever had hold. This tale will tell ye Why travel I don’t. To tourneys or ever Tents sleep in. My fear of feeling So frightfully ill though, Derives from the drive, Not dreaming outside. My tale is now told and I trust that you know. To hold your health High in your needs. Your arrangements to always, Always have backups. Not talking and trusting it True to remain. Most things may fail, Machines or yourself. Though true I trust My trouble is rare. To go galavanting with Growth on your brain. Is a danger you don’t wish Dare take.

This is in an Old Norse and Icelandic verse form called Fornyrðislag. Milady Nelly gives the rules for this form as:

1. Short lines 2. Rhyming doesn't matter 3. Rhythm is everything, you have weak syllables and strong syllables, every line should contain two strong syllables. 4. 8 lines per verse 5. You need to hold true to what we call "Supports" and "Head-letters" (basically means the first line should have two words beginning with the same letter, that same letter should start the first word in line two. Line 3 like line 1, line 4 like line 2 and on and on. The only exception is if an even numbered line starts with a "weak" syllable, then you start the first "strong" syllable with the letter in question.)