From the rimy ruins of Abbey Carth,
the Scaramouch, did tarry march.
Bold, be he in his deeds, with voice.
Cower, he will, when given choice.
Want, is he, of a heroes ilk,
bedecked of medals, braided silk.
Bringing up the rear in battle,
he be not, a man of mettle.
Cannon fire does make him quiver,
staying hidden, he does shiver.
But, when it is, the battle ends,
in charge he was, he does pretend.
Gladly he will tell all his tales,
emboldened by a cup of ale.
How he, led men into the fray.
Encouraging them to hold, stay.
Of shots he fired, left and right.
Of his boldness, of his might.
He is a legend, in his mind.
It is there, his courage, he finds.
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