by Darryl C. Burgdorf On December 23, 1991, Thomas James Mullen, the man who would eventually have become my father-in-law, died at the age of 69. He had been in and out of hospitals for several years. He suffered from renal failure, and had only a few weeks earlier been diagnosed with resurgent cancer. The direct cause of his death was a stroke which affected his respiratory and circulatory functions. I had only known the man for a few months, but had been greatly impressed with his strength of will and with his never-failing sense of humor in spite of all that he had been through. Watching his sudden physical and mental deterioration after the stroke affected me in ways I cannot describe. As I sat in the hospital with Joy and her mother on Saturday, the imagery crystallized in my mind. I wrote the ballad the next day. On Monday morning, Thomas died. The poem took the form of a ballad almost by default, as I had been studying balladry extensively for several months. (Joy and I were both active at the time in the Society for Creative Anachronism.) Its stanzaic form is one of the most common in English-language balladry. Although its content is not strictly in keeping with that of traditional balladry, it is well within the bounds of the later broadside balladry. I make no claims as to the poem's quality, and no apologies for its shortcomings. I wrote it, and am placing it here, only as a tribute to my wife's father. The Death of a King The man, once agile, tall and strong, Lies helpless, pale and wan. A shadow now of what he was; Too soon, he will be gone. No wound from battle glorious, Nor treachery laid him low. 'Twas age alone that brought him down, And time, his only foe. His hands, which once a kingdom's reigns Did firmly seize and hold, Now crippled, weakly grasp at naught And tremble uncontrolled. The voice which once commanded hosts Can scarce but whisper now; His mind, once sharp and quick to laugh Is clouded, reason sloughed. The chiurgeons' job here, now, is through; They've done as much they can. All that remains is the long, hard wait For the coming oblivion. The Queen is strong, her duty clear; The Kingdom must endure. So few are allowed to see the strain Of grief without a cure. And through the Kingdom, gentles stop And share a common grief; With a great man dying, all reflect That life is far too brief. The wait will end, and life go on. Such is the way of things. But just for now, the world does pause Upon the death of a King.