Coraya - What Befell the Duke? (bardcore/folk-pop story song)

Описание: A playful medieval whodunit sung by Coraya! 🕯️🎭
On Saint Crispin’s day the duke vanishes into the market crowd… and the town can’t stop asking: “What befell the duke?”
Bardcore vibes, hand-clap energy, rosy tavern chorus—perfect for renaissance-fair hearts and story-song lovers.

A lighthearted call-and-response tale set to folk-pop rhythms, with old-time imagery (signet rings, flour dust, bells) and a catchy refrain you’ll be humming after one play.

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Lyrics
At dawntide upon Saint Crispin’s day, down market-street,
The duke took cloak and quill and chalice fair.
The feast did breathe of lute and spicèd sweet,
Then, e’en as mist, he slipp’d betwixt the wares.
He left upon the trencher by the butter
His signet—and a trail of crumb and litter.

What befell the duke?
The bell-tongues peal; the echoes speak:
What befell the duke?
The burghers laugh, yet still they seek:
What befell the duke?

The seneschal sought from keep to dovecote eaves,
Through ledger’d dust and arras wrought with hawks.
White flour on his bootheels, feather’d sleeves—
Small tokens scatter’d, none would deign to talk.
Quoth the fool: “By my bellèd cap and rattle’s bawl—
He chaffers sandals at the almond-stall!”

What befell the duke?
The wind across the yew replies:
What befell the duke?
The hounds do yawn; the rumor flies:
What befell the duke?

Some sware a fay transform’d him to a pike
That swims a tun of mead, a lordly fin.
Others trow he donn’d a cowl, monk-like,
Or pipes the moon-road with the mummers’ kin.
A goose, full wroth, made clamour: “He challeng’d me—
I won—gaudeamus—sooth, let it be!”

What befell the duke?
The painted glass lets whispers through:
What befell the duke?
The market shrugs, then asks anew:
What befell the duke?

Should he rap at thy gate, give bread and salt within;
Men mislay fewer lords than they mislay their leaven.

By the old milne where the river’s wrinkled light
Wades silver through the wheel at the matin-bell’s ring,
They heard a tuneless lay—honest and bright—
A man in apron, dusted white as new-fall’d snow.
He crown’d his loaves like helms; he cheer’d the maid;
His signet glimmer’d in the manchets made.

What befell the duke?
He rose—like a loaf—among the folk.
What befell the duke?
He barter’d dais for peel and oak.
What befell the duke?
No tragick tale—he found his oven… and his jape.

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