Academia!
Gallagher peered over the proffered sheet. “Ah. Yes. Mid-twentieth century ballad, at least by the Old American definition of ‘ballad.’ Note how the text features a spoken-word introduction, followed by verses meant to be sung. That suggests a transitional work between the old and new lyric traditions that arose in the last two centuries of the First Republic…”
“Freeman,” I interrupted, and he grinned at me.
“Sorry, Sun. Academic itches must be scratched. Anyway, yes, it looks like it’s a folk song — no idea of the tune, mind you — of some poor unfortunate, trapped forever on the… oh, of course. It’s a song about the Antiquity! That must be why our Mr. Shane had collected it. A very old song, too. It must have been made at least a century before the dawn of the First Age of Magic.” He handed me the paper. “I don’t suppose you can glean more, with psychometry or suchlike?”
“It doesn’t work that way,” I absently responded, really reading the text now. All scholars in the Second Republic may learn Old American from books, but actually encountering the language as it was spoken can sometimes be a challenge. “Would this Charlie in the song really have been forced to ride on their trains for an eternity?” I asked Gallagher. “Surely somebody else would have given him a nickel to get off.”
And why does his wife never give him a nickel when she delivers his lunch?!?!?