The Gage of War

here once was a herald of Scottish disguise
Successful in war and in love
But his claim to renown, if the stories are true,
Was his habit of dropping his glove.
It began on a Twelfth Night a few years ago
He came as a guest of the King
The boards were all set, the torches aglow,
And the minstrels had started to sing.
He paused for a moment to straighten his cloak
And his gauntlet fell onto the floor
He bent to retrieve it, and when he arose,
He found he had started a war.
The monarch was livid, his choler arose
To battle his forces he led
Two armies engaged, grim battle they waged,
And soon seven thousand were dead.
But the herald survived, alive and unharmed
Albeit a trifle chagrined
But a bare six months later his gage took a fall
And it started all over again.
Thereafter, mere sight of this gentleman’s glove
Was enough to provoke a melee
And had not his wife at last hit on a plan
We’d none of us be here today.
His gauntlets she bound with a stout piece of cord
Which she threaded apace through his sleeves
Her stratagem worked,
and no more were young maids
Of their new-wedded husbands bereaved.
So now let us toast this remarkable lord
Whose gauntlets were wont to aggrieve
And here’s to his wife who had the good sense
To sew the things onto his sleeves