Troubadour-Tribute

I love the songs of working people played In cabins and at dances, and along Highways where the vagabonds wander by, Unchanged since days of early English song. The English, Celtic minstrelsy can never die As long as mandolins and fiddles cry The ancient ballads of true love turned wrong— Of God—and ghosts—and deaths and birth, Wherever people and their folklore throng. Out on the sea (or prairies) where the songs are made Of people close to water, dust and earth: Elements that give music its true worth As folk song singers ply their timeless trade.