Amazingly enough, after a long dry spell, broken only by the occasional political screed, I've penned a few lyrics lately. The most recent came to me while walking to the Metro two mornings ago. I started singing "Clayton Boone," an American version of "Gypsy Davy," and pondering on what happens next, this took form:


Son of Davy

I am the son of a gypsy lad,
My mother was a lady,
My brother lives in a castle fine,
I'm called the Son of Davy.

I met my brother one fine day,
Along the road a riding.
He aboard a proud-cut-dun,
And me by the roadside striding.

"Good morn to you, kind sir," says I –
I own he did not know me.
"You look as though you've seen a ghost;
Whence comes that look you show me?"

"I beg your pardon," says he to me,
"And please excuse my staring,
But your looks are like a portrait fine –
It's my mother's face you're wearing."

"There is an inn close by," says I,
"Where we can take a rest.
We can discuss this odd event,
And their ale is of the best."

"The sun is hot, the road is dust,
And a glass of ale could suit.
So to spite my father, I'll come along,
And I'll stand a round, to boot."

The day was gone and the hour late,
When talk turned to his mother –
"She left when I was but a babe,
And bitter grew my father."

"He married soon again – too soon –
To a greedy, wicked lady,
Who takes his gold and leaves him poor
As that long-gone gypsy, Davy."

"As for me," he said as he
Called for another round.
"I'm cast out now to make my way
And roam from town to town."

"Well met, well met, well met," says I,
"You cannot know how well!
But if you'll come with me tonight,
There's a story I can tell."

We rode up to the caravan,
Parked 'round the campfire gleaming,
And there we heard the sweet guitar,
And the voice of our mother singing.

"Come home, come home, you have, my son,
Come home to your mother.
Sit you down and meet your kin,
You were brought here by your brother."

In shock, he climbed down from his horse,
In shock he looked around him.
The very words he heard from her
Served only to astound him.

"How have you been all these long years?
Tell me of your father –
Does he still cast all blame on me,
Or does he even bother?"

"My father sits in golden rooms,
Which my step-mother rules.
She spends his gold as he grows old,
And calls him but a fool."

"Will you return to your own sweet bed,
In another mother's home,
Or will you join us on the road,
Along with us to roam?"

"I'll not return to my own sweet bed,
Nor to my father's hall.
He made the bed that he lies in,
So let him keep it all."


© 2008 Bob Clayton

You'll note that Davy himself is not spoken of. This kept me from having to invent a story for him as well as the others in the original. There's been a good song penned about a meeting a few years along, so I placed this story a decade or more later.

I'm sort of thrilled that this song came about. I have been in the longest dry spell you could ask for (and why would you ask for a dry spell? I hear you say -- well, that can be tomorrow's song topic, can't it?).

Bob