Riding my bike down by the river in Mission Valley this morning I followed the raucous quarreling of crows in the willow trees thinking they must have found a food source and were advertising it to the hundreds of other crows that have become something of an infestation in our area. What I found was sobering. As many as a dozen crows were perched in trees and on a lamp post above a grassy patch beside the bike path. A dead crow covered with morning dew lay in the grass. Of course, the noisy crows may not have been mourning, but their clustering above the dead one made it seem so to me.

I rode away remembering an old Scottish ballad that I once gave to my students to read and tell me what the writer of the lyrics was saying. It tells the sad story of a slain knight whose body lies rotting behind a turf wall. The crows’ cawing discussion about the situation are the lyrics. His hound has gone on to hunting; his hawk has taken the wild-fowl home, and his lady has taken another mate. I remember that most of those high school seniors focused their attention on the knight’s lady who took another mate and said it was quite clear that she failed the test of "true love." Only one young woman in the whole class got it. Roxanne who is now more than sixty years old explained that life is often hard, especially in the days when the poem was written. She said that however much the woman had loved the knight, she was wise to find another mate. Romance is nice, but surviving and going on and living as productively as possible is the right thing to do.

If you'd like to hear it read by a Scotsman:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QSL0QO54JpM

The Twa Corbies

As I was walking all alane,

I heard twa corbies makin a mane;

The tane unto the ither say,

"Whar sall we gang and dine the-day?"

"In ahint yon auld fail dyke,

I wot there lies a new slain knight;

And nane do ken that he lies there,

But his hawk, his hound an his lady fair."

"His hound is tae the huntin game,

His hawk tae fetch the wild-fowl hame,

His lady's tain anither mate,

So we may mak oor dinner swat."

"Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,

And I'll pike oot his bonny blue ten;

Wi ae lock o his gowden hair

We'll theek oor nest whan it grows bare."

"Mony a one for him makes mane,

But nane sall ken whar he is gane;

Oer his white banes, whan they are bare,

The wind sall blaw for evermair."

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In plain American English, the Ballad is pretty gruesome.

The Two Crows

As I was walking all alone,

I heard two crows (or ravens) making a moan;

One said to the other,

"Where shall we go and dine today?"

"In behind that old turf wall,

I sense there lies a newly slain knight;

And nobody knows that he lies there,

But his hawk, his hound and his lady fair."

"His hound is to the hunting gone,

His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl home,

His lady's has taken another mate,

So we may make our dinner sweet."

"You will sit on his white neck-bone,

And I'll peck out his pretty blue eyes;

With one lock of his golden hair

We'll thatch our nest when it grows bare."

"Many a one for him is moaning,

But nobody will know where he is gone;

Over his white bones, when they are bare,

The wind will blow for evermore."