Here is the latest version of Maribell, the one I’ve been performing at bardic circles

Maribell of the Needles

By Drustan of Old Stonebridges

I bring a story of love and love’s greatest enemy: time.

In a land no map can find, and a time no man can tell,

the earth a bowl of green, the sky an azure shell

there lived a tailor’s daughter, her name was Maribell.

Maribell was the loveliest girl in the village, with twinkling eyes, a grin curled in mischief, and a mind sharper than a needle.

She was between a maiden and child, the needles and the pins.

a time where love may take her and, from moment love begins

will never release her, she’ll not be free again

One bright Spring morning, a handsome young warrior named Lutrin entered the tailor’s shop.

His gaze fell on Maribell, and swore none else would do.

And Maribell looked in his eyes, a soulful shade of blue,

she was solely of the needles, her time of the pins was through.

That night, Litrin rapped on Maribell’s window. It would not be the last. The woods became their haven.

The maples and oaks, the leaves and the loam,

it became their bed, it became their home.

Within their shady bowers, they’d never be alone

But Lutrin had a secret. He was a Sidhe, a fair folk from across the Veil, where time is not the straight stitch of a tailor’s hem or seam. It’s the loops, swoops, and twists of embroidery.

And when he confessed to her, she cared not what he told.

He made have been a Sidhe, and endless years old,

but she had made her choice and but for him she would unfold

Through the spring and summer they loved. Till cruel Autumn came. The Wild Hunt had been called, and Lutrin had to go to war. “My love, I shall be gone a year and aday. When I return, I shall make you my bride, and we shall live in the land of my birth forever.”

She looked into his eyes, a soulful shade of blue.

“I shall sew our wedding blanket, a deep and blueish hue.

And I shall love no other, my soul belongs to you

And they were of the needles once more, but come the dawn, Lutrin was gone.

Many years passed, and many men once courted her, she refused them all, knowing Lutrin would return to her. But time across the Veilis not straight like a hem or seem, but the loops, swoops and twists of embroidery

And still she sewed that blanket, a soulful shade of blue.

Never to rest her needle, a task she’d not eschew.

Though teary eyes glistened, like early morning dew

Sixty years passed, and Lutrin did not return. And still she sewed the blanket, though she couldn’t remember why.

Her sight had grown poor, and memories grow dim,

They softly, drift away, dead leaves in Autumn wind.

And she was alone, the blanket bound her without and within

And then one Autumn day, Lutrin returned upon a great, white steed, shining sword girded to his waist. He had not aged a single day. He rode through the village, and knocked on Maribell’s door. When there was no answer, he threw it open, and found…a blanket!

Spreading cross the floor, Tumbling down the stairs.

it was here, it was there, it was nigh everywhere.

But he would not be stopped. He had not a care.

Across the Veil, he had been gone a year and a day,

and now the two could wed, and he’d spirit her away.

No simple wedding blanket could keep the Sidhe at bay

But time across the Veil: Well, you know

He took those stairs two by two, brushing past the soulful blue, until he saw, laying in bed, Maribell, in her twilight days, sewing their wedding blanket. And there he saw his tragic flaw,

she lived stitched in a seam, he lived in loops and swoops.

But though she grew old and her eyes were dim and drooped,

Lutrin loved his Maribell, so by her bed he stooped

“Maribell, I’ve returned! Now we can wed, and I will take you across the Veil, where we shall be young forever.”

Maribell looked in his eyes, a soulful shade of blue,

There was something near familiar, dream fragments she once knew

But she politely said “Child, I do not know you.”

“Not know me? What of our nights, long ago,

Our haven in the maples, oaks, leaves and loam?

Take my hand, and I’ll take you home

Maribell stared in his eyes, a paler shade of blue,

Perhaps there was something there, deferred and overdue

But she said with a single sigh “Child, I don’t know you.”

Maribell went back to sewing the blanket and gasped when Lutrin grabbed it.

“But this is our wedding blanket. You’ve been sewing all these years.

My love, please remember,” he said though streaming tears.

But love is not what they claim in songs of balladeers.

She glared at those crying eyes, more a gray than blue.

The memories returned, but needle sharp they grew

Her heart bled while she waited years, alone her whole life through

“I’ve no wedding, but a blanket, and I’ve sewing to do.”

For fifty days and nights, Lutrin raged in the woods outside the village, cursing the loops, swoops, and twists of fate that took his Maribell from him. And when the first snowflakes fell upon the maples, the oaks, the leaves and the loam, broken-hearted Lutrin fell upon his Sword.

And they say at dusk in Autumn, through the maples, oaks and loam.

When lovers share a secret tryst, hidden from their home

One might hear a keen, though none can truly tell.

The voice cries out a pained lament, for his lost Maribell.

And always there’s the answer, pierced the twilight through

No wedding, just a blanket, and I’ve sewing to do.

I bring a story of love and woe, and though all love is unique in its woe, it’s a tale that happens every day, for love’s greatest woe is time.

In a land no map can find, and a time no man can tell,

the land a bowl of green, the sky an azure shell

there lived a tailor’s daughter, her name was Maribell.

Maribell was considered by many to be the loveliest girl in the village, with twinkling eyes, a grin curled in mischief, and a mind sharper than a needle’s prick.

But she was between a maiden and child, the needles and the pins.

a time where love may take her and, from moment love begins

will never release her, she’ll not be free again

One bright Spring morning, a stranger came to the village. A handsome young warrior named Lutrin entered the tailor’s shop.

His gaze fell on Maribell, and swore none else would do.

And Maribell looked in his eyes, a soulful shade of blue,

she was solely of the needles, her time of the pins was through.

That night, Litrin rapped on Maribell’s window. It would not be the last. The woods became their haven, where they were free to love one another..

The maples and oaks, the leaves and the loam,

it became their bed, it became their home.

Within their shady bowers, they’d never be alone

But Lutrin had a secret. He was a Sidhe, a fair one from across the Veil, Time is not the straight stitch of a tailor’s hem or seam. It’s the loops, swoops, and twists of embroidery.

And when he confessed to her, she cared not what he told.

He made have been a Sidhe, and endless years old,

but she had made her choice and but for him she would unfold

Through the spring and summer they loved. Till Autumn, cruel Autumn came and Lutrin had to go away. “My love, I shall be gone a year and aday. When I return, I shall make you my bride, and we shall live in the land of my birth forever.”

She looked into his eyes, a soulful shade of blue.

“I shall sew our wedding blanket, a soulful blueish hue.

And I shall love no other, my soul belongs to you

And they were of the needles once more, but come the dawn, Lutrin was gone.

A year and a day passed without his return. But Maribell still sewed their blanket, knowing that Lutrin would return to her. But time across the Veilis not straight like a hem or seem, but the loops, swoops and twists of embroidery

Many years passed, and many men once courted her, she refused them all, knowing Lutrin would return to her.

And still she sewed that blanket, a soulful shade of blue.

Never to rest her needle, a task she’d not eschew.

Though teary eyes glistened, like early morning dew

Sixty years passed, and Lutrin did not return. And still she sewed that blanket of blue, though she could not remember why.

Her sight had grown poor, and memories grow dim,

They softly, drift away, dead leaves in Autumn wind.

And she was alone, the blanket bound her without and within

And then one Autum day, Lutrin returned upon a great, white steed, shining sword girded to his waist. He had not aged a single day. He rode through the village, and knocked on Maribell’s door. There was no answer, and he could wait no longer. He opened her door, and found…a blanket!

Spreading cross the floor, Tumbling down the stairs.

it was here, it was there, it was nigh everywhere.

But he would not be stopped. He had not a care.

Across the Veil, he had been gone a year and a day,

and now the two could wed, and he’d take her away.

No simple wedding blanket could keep the Sidhe at bay

But time across the Veil: Well, you know

He took those stairs two by two, brushing past the soulful blue, until he saw, laying in bed, Maribell, his Maribell, sewing their wedding blanket. And there upon the bed, he saw his tragic flaw,

she lived stitched in a seam, he lived in loops and swoops.

But though she grew old and her eyes were dim and drooped,

Lutrin loved his Maribell, so by her bed he stooped

“Maribell, I’ve returned! Now we can wed, and I will take you across the Veil, where we shall be young forever.”

Maribell looked in his eyes, a soulful blue,

There was something alomst familiar, dream fragments she once knew

But she politely said “Child, I do not know you.”

“Not know me? What of our nights, long ago,

Our haven in the maples, oaks, leaves and loam?

Take my hand, and I’ll take you home

Maribell stared in his eyes, a paler shade of blue,

Perhaps there was something there, deferred and overdue

But she said with a single sigh “Child, I do not know you.”

Maribell went back to sewing the blanket and gasped when Lutrin grabbed it.

“But this is our wedding blanket. You’ve been sewing all these years.

My love, please remember,” he said though streaming tears.

But love is not what they claim in the songs of balladeers.

She glared at those crying eyes, more a gray than blue.

The memories appeared, but needle sharp they grew

Her heart bled while she waited, alone her whole life through

“I’ve no wedding, but a blanket, and I have sewing to do.”

For fifty days and nights, Lutrin raged in the woods outside the village, cursing the loops, swoops, and twists of fate that took his Maribell of the Needles from him. Finally, when the first snowflakes fell upon the maples, the oaks, the leaves and the loam, broken hearted Lutrin fell upon his Sword.

And they say at dusk in Autumn, through the maples and oaks and loam.

When lovers might share a secret tryst, hidden from their home

One might hear a keen, though none can truly tell.

The voice cries out a pained lament, for his lost Maribell.

And always there’s the answer, pierced the twilight through

No wedding, just a blanket, and I have sewing to do.

I bring a story of love and woe, and though all love is unique in its woe, it’s a tale that happens every day.

In a land no map can find, and a time no man can tell,

there lived a tailor’s daughter, her name was Maribell.

She was between a maiden and child, the needles and the pins.

a time where love may take her, she’ll not return again.

One bright Spring morning, a stranger came to the village. A handsome young warrior named Lutrin entered the tailor’s shop.

He took but a look at Maribell, and swore no other would do.

Maribell looked in his eyes, a soulful shade of blue,

she was solely of the needles, her time of the pins was through.

That night, Litrin rapped on Maribell’s window. It would not be the last. The woods became their haven, where they were free to love one another..

The maples and oaks, the leaves and the loam,

it became their bed, it became their home.

Within their shady bowers, they’d never be alone

But Lutrin had a secret. He was a Sidhe, a fair one from across the Veil, the land of the Young, where one will live forever. For with the Veil:

Time is not mean, a tailor’s hem or seam. It’s embroidery’s loops, twists, and swoops.

And when he confessed to her, she cared not what he told.

He made have been a Sidhe, and endless years old,

but she loved him still, for she saw into his soul.

Through the spring and summer they loved. Till Autumn, cruel Autumn came. A Sidhe could not stay in our world long, They were the stuff of dreams, and dreams, like memories, melt like snowflakes.

Their last night Lutrin sadly told her, that he must go. He could not resist the pull of the Veil any longer.“My love, I shall be gone a year and aday. When I return, I shall make you my bride, and we shall live in the land of my birth, we shall live forever.”

She looked into his eyes, a soulful shade of blue.

“I shall sew our wedding blanket, a soulful blueish hue.

And I shall love no other, what other could ever do.

And they were of the needles once more, but come the dawn, Lutrin was gone.

A year and a day passed, And Maribell sewed their blanket, knowing that Lutrin would return to her.

But time across the Veil. It is not mean, like a hem or a seam, but embroidery’s loops twists and swoops.

Many years passed, and many men once courted her, she refused them all, knowing Lutrin would return to her.

And still she sewed that blanket, a soulful shade of blue.

Never to stop till returning, something she’d not eschew.

Though teary eyes glistened, like early morning dew

But time across the Veil: It is not mean, like a hem or a seam, but embroidery’s loops twists and swoops.

Sixty years passed, and Lutrin did not return. And still she sewed that blanket of blue, though she could not remember why.

Her sight had grown poor, and memories grew dim,

Softly, drifted away, like dead leaves in the Autumn wind.

And she was alone, the blanket wrapped and embraced her within

And then one Autum day, Lutrin returned upon a great, white steed, shining sword girded to his waist. He had not aged a single day.

He rode through the village, ignoring the glares and stares

for his true love, his Maribell, waited there.

He opened her door, and found…a blanket!

Spreading cross the floor, Tumbling down the stairs.

it was here, it was there, it was nigh everywhere.

But he would not be stopped. He had not a care.

Across the Veil, he had been gone a year and a day,

and now the two could wed, and he’d take her away.

But time across the Veil: It is not mean, like a hem or a seam, but embroidery’s loops twists and swoops.

He took those stairs two by two, brushing past the soulful blue, until he saw, laying in bed, Maribell, his Maribell, sewing their wedding blanket.

And there upon the bed, he saw his tragic flaw,

she lived stitched in a seam, he lived in loops and swoops.

But though she grew old and her eyes were dim and drooped,

Lutrin loved his Maribell, his Maribell, even more.

“Maribell, I’ve returned! Now we can wed, and I will take you across the Veil, where we shall be young forever.” Lutrin fell upon one knee, hands resting on the bed, resisting the urge to take her in his strong arms.

Maribell looked in his eyes, a soulful blue,

She politely said “Child, I do not know you.”

“Do not know me? What of our nights, long ago,

Our haven in the maples, oaks, leaves and loam?

Maribell stared in his eyes, a paler shade of blue,

She said with a single sigh “Child, I do not know you.”

Maribell went back to sewing the blanket. Lutrin watched the needle go in an out. He thought himself a fool. But a Sidhe in love loves forever. He was the stuff of dreams, and his dream was lying upon the bed. Lutrin grabbed the blanket.

“But this is our wedding blanket. You’ve been sewing all these years.

My love, please remember,” he said though streaming tears.

She glared at those crying eyes, more a gray than blue.

“I have no wedding, only a blanket, and I have sewing to do. Good bye.”

For fifty days and nights, Lutrin raged in the woods outside the village, cursing the loops, swoops, and twists of fate that took his Maribell, his Maribell of the Needles from him. Finally, when the first snowflakes fell upon the maples, the oaks, the leaves and the loam, Lutrin fell upon his Sword.

And they say that at dusk in Autumn, through the maples the oaks and the loam.

When two lovers might share a secret tryst, hidden from home

One might hear a keen, though none can truly tell.

The voice cries out a pained lament, for his lost Maribell.

And always there’s the answer, piercing the twilight through

No wedding, just a blanket, and I have sewing to do.