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The Moste Tragickal Historie of Childe Sam and Ladye Ruth
by Piers_Plowman
 Our epic love triangle has been retold as an Elizabethan ballad on the .
Gentles, give heed!
A tale most tragickal I would relate,
Of Childe Sam the Cowman and his fate,
In metre, yet I fear you must be told,
The metre that Sam used was not of gold,
But only plate.
Ladye Ruth, a Northern lass of mettle,
Knew not the use of pot,
Nor yet of kettle,
Oftimes her babes did pangs of hunger suffer,
Yet only beans-on-toast did Cruell Ruth proffer,
Or oven chips perchance before them placed;
On weekends, takeaways their table graced.
Sam knew the use of syringe, vial, centrifuge,
He was a man of parts,
And aye, those parts were huge!
Perceiving this, his mistress, Ladye Ruth,
Upon them cast an eye and uttered "Strooth!"
In clover field and cowshed passed their days,
Most pleasantly, until a parting of the ways,
Did end their snogging by the milking pail;
It ended thus, and thereby hangs a tail.
In Oxford-Town, a hostelry,
He'd chosen for his deed of villiany,
Ladye Ruth he lured with promises of bliss,
Beforetimes told to Kirstye, and to Fliss.
Yet in the end his wiles were to fail,
Her child's voice, recorded on voice mail,
Did twist her heart,
And in twisting so,
Did cause her love to lessen,
And her fear to grow.
No hornes she placed upon Lord Davyd's head,
But rather bade farewell, turned tail, and fled.
When Churlish Eddie now,
Lord Davyd to despite,
Asks "Who was that Ladye,
I saw you with last night?"
Lord Davyd answers, "Sirrah! Upon my lyfe,
That was no Ladye, but, forsooth, my Wyfe!"
Fytt the Seconde
Lord Davyd Learns the Truthe
Not contented, conjugal duty to pervert,
Childe Sam then filial love did so divert,
That it no longer to its rightful end did flow,
But did instead to false, deceiving traitor go.
Lord Davyd's children's hearts,
So young and gay;
Sam stole those hearts,
And took them quite away.
Of all of this, Lord Davyd had no clue,
He doubted not,
Who would, would you?*
Believing cattle, children, wife, and lands,
All safe as houses in Childe Sammés hands,
The greater then his anger, have no doubt,
When first he learned the truth,
And truth will out.
It happened thus, upon a day,
That Ladye Ruth herself,
Her secret did betray.
Seeking but her bootless tears to quell,
Lord Davyd guessed the cause,
And found himself in Hell;
Revealed, the web of lies around him wove,
By Sam's deceit and Ladye Ruth's un-love.
Enraged by thoughts of furtive slurping sounds,
Lord Davyd's righteous anger knew no bounds!
"With a Cowman?", he Ladye Ruth reviled,
"With such a one our marriage-bed defiled?
Away, False Strumpet! Hold, heare fyrste Thy Doome,
Henceforward Thou shalt sleepe in the Spare Roome!"
Now in Lord Davyd's bosom gnaws a canker,
He ever mutters "Sam, Thou poxy ... villain",
The cuckoo's note no longer pleasing be,
This only is his thought: "He meaneth me."
With troubled mind he wandered aimlessly,
And saw a wooden house, built high upon a tree,
A modest building made of ply,
And thought, "This Tree-House doth offend mine Eye."
And thus in Davyd's soul a plan took root,
That destined was to soon bear bitter fruit.
Fytt the Thyrde
Lord Davyd's Anger and the Murther of the Tree-House
Lord Davyd's youngest son,
Replied upon reproof,
"'Tis a rubbish Tree-House,
For it hath no Roofe,
The Partes that Sam did build are Strong and Faste,
Yours only Craven fall to Windés Blaste!"
Thus stung to rage by childish scorn,
Lord Davyd cried, "This is not to be borne!"
And seizing crowbar, he did himself betake,
To the orchard, his lust for blood to slake.
With rolling eyes and foaming mouth he rained,
Upon the treehouse mighty blows and blows again,
No cries of "Hold!" or "Quarter!" did he heed,
It seems they did but greater anger breed.
The crowbar broke, he casted it aside,
But not a moment did Lord Davyd bide,
With bloody hands he tore the house asunder,
While his kin saw from below with fear and wonder.
At last, the fearful battle ended,
Lord Davyd from his perch descended;
The tree-house left for dead, like Ladye Mondegreen;
The curtain falls upon this sorry scene.
Lamento
The Tree-House's Dying Curse
The Tree-House speakes:
Though built by hated hands,
I blameless be,
I served my office well,
Upon my tree;
A harmless thing of wood,
I had no thought of evil, nor of good.
With what right hast Thou so treated me?
Why didst not so to Him who builded me?
Punished for another's crime,
No guilt I bear,
To thus be so dishonoured here;
And doubtless soon,
Victim of Lord Davyd's ire,
To be at once myself,
And my own funeral pyre;
Fireworks shall light the skies,
To celebrate and mock at my demise.
O Woe! Lord Davyd,
In o'erweening pride,
Wilt be cast down,
By him Thou dost deride!
In battle, true,
I fared the worse,
Hear now and tremble at my dying curse:
Already has the seed been sown,
That betimes to stem, to stalk, to sturdy tree once grown,
When fashioned to a stave,
And steered by spirit fierce,
Avenging me thy heartless heart shall pierce.
Or perchance it shall a stick of lead embrace,
And sharpened, laid upon a fitting place,
A desk within the ´óÏó´«Ã½,
Strikes through thy name,
And Thou wilt cancelled be.
I am undone,
I breathe my final breath;
My curse lives on,
I yield myself to death.
Notes
In the Middle Ages, a "childe" was the eldest son of a nobleman who had not yet won his spurs or attained knighthood.
The reference to "Lady Mondegreen" is related to a mishearing in a anonymous 17th century ballad The Bonnie Earl O' Murray. .
Read more parodies by Piers Plowman:
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More parodies - from Agatha Christie to Damon Runyon
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