A short and overweight striding bard stands here, flagon of evermead in one hand and a light shortsword in the other. A weirwood harp is hanging from his belt, shimmering brightly.
The night is cold, the winds are out;
There's naught but stars and clouds about,
So if ye would, pull down that spout,
And draw me off a pint of stout.
I'd offer silver, even gold
For brew to cut this bitter cold
It's not a night for man nor beast,
Save for the hops and brewer's yeast...
Alas, my purse is thin and slack,
But lend me coin, I'll pay it back;
Or take in trade my song of mirth,
For it's at least a dollar's worth!
I thank ye kindly in advance,
For stout to drink and pipes for dance
A thousand blessings on this inn...
I'll gladly stop this way again.
