From a Father to His Son: Tale III

Tale III: The Violin of Bone

There lived two sisters i' the North
And beautiful they were both.
These two were the blacksmith's daughters fair,
And by the sea-shore was their lair.

One day a knight came up to their bower
He came up there at the ninth hour
He came there for to be their wooer
He couldnae have come there quicker or sooner.

The eldest was named Isabel,
And many suitors she had well.
The youngest was named Rosemary,
And no suitors at all had she.

He courted Izzie with glove and with ring,
But loved Rosy more than anything.
He courted Izzie with brooch and with knife,
But loved Rosy with all of his life.

Izzie grew envious of her sibling
And saw one day that the knight was proposing.
In her bed Izzie couldnae rest,
And with grief and strife she was

She said to her sister 'Let's go down to the sea-strand
To see the ships coming up to the land.'
She took Rosemary by her lily-white hand
And led her down to the sea-strand.

Rosemary stood upon a stone,
Soon Isabel came and threw her in.
She pulled her back by her waist sma'
And broke her back right up to her jaw.

‘O Isabel, Isabel, take my hand,
And I'll make you heir to all I have.
O Isabel, Isabel, take my middle,
And you'll get my gold and my silver girdle.
O Isabel, Isabel, save my life,
And I swear I'll never be any man’s wife.’

‘O Rosemary, Rosemary, I'll ne'er take your hand,
And I thank you dear for all that you have.
O Rosemary, Rosemary, I'll take your middle,
And I thank you dear for your silver girdle.
O Rosemary, Rosemary, I'll ne'er save your life,
And I'm glad that you'll ne'er be any man's wife.'

‘You malformed wench, get out my sight,
And you’ll ne’er see again God’s gold light.
I'd rather you were drowned in the sea,
Than on land and standing before me.'

Isabel took her sister by her middle,
Then filched from Rosemary her silver girdle.
She forced her sister's head underwater,
And left confident she was the smith's only daughter.

Rosemary tried to swim but she sank,
And her body on the current drifted,
Until it came to the riverbank,
When it was out of the water lifted.

Her body bumped up 'gainst the mill-dam,
And up to it the old miller ran.

The old miller-man wore a ragged grey coat,
He was rough and grizzled and rather stout,
And to his house he took the corpse
To do with it as he pleased.

The old miller-man he took out a saw,
Which he'd borrowed from his friend, a carpenter.
With the saw he tore open the maiden's breast,
And from her body took the breast-bone with the rest.

He took her bones both thick and thin,
And used them to make a violin.

He took out the girl's nose-ridge,
And used it to make the violin's bridge.
From her vertebrae he built the neck
And with her ribs and pelvis built the rest.

From her fingertips he made the pegs,
And the breastbone he used for the tail at the end.

He gouged from her flesh her veins so blue,
And stretched them on the violin thereto.
He likewise took out all four of her molars
And used them to make the four fine-tuners.

At the base of the strings, those four molars beneath,
He set her lips, her gums, her tongue, and her teeth.

Soon came an ogre to the mill, for to buy some flour fresh,
And he bought from the miller the girl's soft flesh.
He took the flesh up to his home in the sky,
And dined upon maid-steak and hot girl pie.

Whene'er he played upon this violin,
Horrible screamings came from within;
An undead lament poured forth from that mouth
A sorrowful song wailing out:

'O yonder lies my father the blacksmith,
O yonder lies my mother, the lady in red,
O yonder lies my sister, foul Isabel,
I will that she must burn in Hell.

Now pay the miller for his pain,
And let him be gone, in God's good name.'

Soon Isabel came to the knight,
And told him that his lover had died.
The knight wept a river when he heard these words,
And thus took out, honed, and fell on his sword.

Without Rosemary he could not live,
So thus he had to his life give.

The old miller-man he went to town,
Soon he a violinist found.
The violinist went to the King,
To play upon the twisted thing.

The King he listened intently
To the violin's lament, sorrowfully.
When the violinist had finished playing his song,
The King he called a council long.

The King called his councillors to him at once,
He lookt upon them all askance,
Said he to them 'Perchance,
Which of you knows this blacksmith?'

One councillor he raised his hand,
He said 'This man lives upon my land.
My son courted his daughter,
And when she died, he put himself to the slaughter.'

The councillor left the meeting then,
To fetch the blacksmith and his wife,
The two of them to bring their daughter,
To confess to her sister's murder.

The violinist played his violin,
Which gave its post-humous condemnation.
Isabel confessed to her crimes,
When the clock had four o' clock chimed.

The Judge sentenced her to a cruel death,
To be boil'd alive in molten lead.

Three hours passed until she stept
Onto the scaffolding,
And, gleefully, Isabel leapt
Into the pot of lead boiling.

She smiled as her skin scalded,
She smiled as it burned black,
She smiled as the lead slid down her throat,
Regret was what she lacked.

She accomplished her ultimate goal--
To slay her sister fair--
And so, in death, she felt no pain,
Just bliss everywhere.

Her ghost oped her eyes on a golden hill,
Along which three roads stretched,
Soon there came a man in black,
Next to her this man stepped.

Isabel turned to the black-clad man,
Upon whose breath a cold rime ran,
Said she to him, 'Who are you,
Oh man with frosty breath?'

Said the man in black; 'My name is Death,
That's why there's frost upon my breath,
I come here to take the souls,
Of those who are damned.'

Death raised his right hand,
And pointed down the roads three,
Spake he now to Isabel;
'Isabel, come now with me.

The Western Road's to Heaven good,
The Northern Road's to Elfland fair,
The Eastern Road's to Hell damnable,
There you and I together must go.'


Death wrapped Isabel in his mantle black,
And took her with him hence,
The road to Hell was lily-strewn,
On each brick was writ 'Good Intentions'.


The road stretched on for forty miles,
Until they came to came to a pearl-grey beach,
There they saw a milk-white steed,
Upon its back death leaped.

Death turned about the milk-white steed,
And took Isabel up behind,
Aye, whene’er the bridle rang,
They rode faster than the wind.

For forty days and forty nights,
They rode through red blood up to the knee,
And they saw neither sun nor moon,
But heard the roaring of the sea.


Soon they approached the gate to Hell,
From which a stream of red blood fell,
As the gate was forged from bodies damned
Stitched together as an arch.

Through the gate The Devil came;
He took Isabel by the hand,
And he led her away,
to torture in that deep, dark land.

My son, please kindly,
Never murder,
You will suffer,
E'er evil you serve;
For at the end of the day,
The criminal damn'd
Will get what they deserve.