Horsedung and woodsmoke are sharp upon the morning air,
And criers’ calls are all but lost within the babble of the throng at start of day.
The mongers and the traders and the craftsmen must with lusty voices
Vie to catch the traveler’s eye.
What d’ye lack?
Come hither – spy these melons, ripe and firm –
Salt fish for sale – Fresh buns –
Here, my lords and ladies —

Here bright glass, fine leathers, rare and well-

wrought wares to grace the hall
Or homely hearthside service do –
Here’s iron and steel, here’s brooms and pots;
Here jewels, and baubles, ribbands colorful and gay
With which to honor and to enter the festivity.
What d’ye lack?
Here’s victuals and drink, here song and sport –
Here be the very prodigy of humankind,

the marvels of an age
Alive and dancing in their revelry.
Draw near – and view the drollery of fools and fops,
Of maids and gallants, and of simple folk
Amidst the stalls and shops that spring up in our

British Brigadoon.
Come nigh – and join the play of spirits loosed
In woodland fantasy.
Come buy – come try your luck –
Come, Traveler, to the Faire.
What d’ye lack?
‘Tis here. There is a rich supply
Available – and at such price
As you may well afford – or no –
No matter – come –
And drink the sights and sounds
And feed the soul on Dionysian revelry.

Diana G.B.Young