There was a castle in the thorn,
In Jack’s Land, never sown;
A dreary place it was, forlorn,
Its acres overgrown.

The Black Elf King dwelt in this hold,
Sepulchral was its gloom;
The stones were weary, worn and old,
And redolent with doom.

Upon an oaken throne he reigned,
A shepherd’s crook in hand;
A mournful moon waxed full and waned
Above this blighted land.

The Black Elf King was feared, abhorred,
Though few dared speak his name,
While o’er the thorn a murder soared,
The crows who spread his fame.

Abroad there roamed a Balladress,
Who strummed a witch’s lyre;
Her cloak was scarlet and her dress,
Astonishing attire.

The Black Elf King learned of her fame,
And yearned to hear her sing;
He wheedled her until she came
By offering a ring:

A ring of gold and very old,
Whose powers wizards fear;
A talisman which I am told
Can make one’s wish appear.

The Balladress agreed to sing,
And strum her witch’s lyre,
For she would have this golden ring,
Which set her heart afire.

And when she came, a path appeared,
A way into the thorn;
It parted as she walked and cleared,
To leave her cloak untorn.

The path was tricky as it turned,
But never did she flinch,
For from her grannie she had learned
To take things inch by inch.

The keep was gloomy, barren, cold,
Bereft of cheer and stark;
The ashes in the hearth were old,
The candles melted dark.

The King sat on an oaken throne,
In ballads it is told;
His finger naught but naked bone,
Which wore the ring of gold.

Old Jack he was in whispers called,
A shepherd’s crook in hand;
His castle was by thorn enwalled,
Forsaken was his land.

The Balladress knew she must play
Her most uncanny song,
And summoned forth an ancient lay,
Which wasn’t very long:

I met an old man by the way,
Whose beard was long and white,
His coat a myrtle shade of grey —
I feared to catch a sight.

‘My name is Death, ’tis plain to see:
Now you must come with me;
Lords, dukes and ladies bow to me,
And likewise so must thee.’

‘I’ll give you silver and my gold;
I’ll give you all my store,
For I am not so very old,
And wish to live some more.’

‘Fair maid, your beauty cast aside,
For now your time has come;
No longer glory in your pride,
Not worth the merest crumb.’

And at her tomb a lover cried:
‘Here lies a fair young maid,
Who long before her time hath died,
For Death her wish betrayed.’

And when her song was sung and done,
A charnel figure sat;
A skeleton upon a throne
He was, and only that.

She found her way back through the thorn,
As only she knew how,
Emerging with the breaking dawn,
And that was spoil enow.

But she had too the ring of gold,
Plucked from a pile of bones;
It was a prize in legend told,
And worth a thousand thrones.

[Adam Bolivar is a poet of mythic and folkloric fantasy, a weird fiction writer and a playwright for marionettes with a particular interest in alliterative verse, balladry and “Jack” tales. The author of numerous books of poetry and fiction, he is also a marionette-maker, and has written multiple original puppet-plays which have been performed in a wide variety of peculiar venues.  https://adambolivar.com]