On an old and spavined plowing-horse, she rode up to the gate,
          Crying, "Harken to the tale I am required to relate;
          I was born to be a Bard, and I'm afraid the hour's late,
          If you show me to my room, I would be glad to set things straight."

          The Bard she had awakened stood, and laughed the girl to scorn.
          "As any little baby knows, a Bard is made, not born.
          'Tis discipline and care will pluck the rose amongst the thorn,
          That cometh not to croaking jays, or crows among the corn."

          They shut the gates upon her, but she wouldn't go away.
          She stayed and pestered patiently and nothing would gainsay,
          And when at last they tested her, they'd found a singing jay--
          And thus it was our own Victorianna came to stay.

          A youngster struck the Bardic gates with vigor and with force.
          The Bards replied regretfully, "We fear you've no recourse.
          Your sister is a Bard trainee, quite set upon her course."
          The youngster said, "Excuse me?  I've come to get the horse!"

Copyright (c) 1994 by Catherine Faber