Baron Steven, Lord of Rockleigh, and Mathilde, our Baroness,
As your Bard, I’ve struggled hard, but I confess to great distress.
For the Lord on high above, my prayers ignored, and gave a shove,
So like a hawk upon a dove, I was descended on… by love!

My lady hails from Chenonceaux, (whence came a Rowanite we know!)
But lives in thrall within the hall of Blessed Ursula, to scrawl
A thousand theses, big and small; thus to this saint she gives her all.

And ‘though her father earns a rather rightly royal wage for toil,
And she wants for very little, in the days of her committal
To her study, clearly it’ll make my wallet old and brittle
As I ride the countryside, to be beside my loving… girlie.

So the task you kindly asked that I perform; to whit, to form
A poem, song or epic long, for every feast until I’ve ceased
To be your bard, is getting hard. But never fear! For you I’m here,
I hold my joyful duties dear, and for the year I’ll stay sincere
To all I vowed the night I bowed and said aloud, to serve I’m proud.

So in the days and feasts to be, when misty haze enshroudeth me,
And any phrase of poetry I cannot raise, and muses flee,
I shall endeavour, now and ever till forever, to be clever,
Writing rhymes to suit the times, if you meantimes forgive my crimes.