Part 4.
THE pale wet moon did rise and ride,
O'er misty wolds and marshes wide.
O miserie!
Sad earth slept underneath the yew,
Lapt in the death-sweat men call dew.
O miserie!
O raven ringlets, ringing wet!
O bright eye rolling black as jet!
O miserie!
O matted locks about the chin!
O towering head-piece, battered in!
O miserie!
Three hats that fit each other tight,
Are worth the helmet of a knight!
O miserie!
He rose all shapeless from the mud,
His yellow garb was stained with blood;
O miserie!
"Vat ish thish schwimming in mine head?
Thish turning round and round?" he said.
O miserie!
He took three paces through the night,
He saw red gold that glittered bright!
O miserie!
Two Royal Heads of Hair he saw!
And One was Woven, and One was Raw!
O miserie!
"O Sholomon! if there ain't a pair
Of dead young damshels shinking there!
O Moshesh! vat a precioush lot
Of beautiful red hair they've got!
The prishe of it would compenshate
Most handshome for my broken pate!
How much their upper lipsh do pout!
How very much their chins shtick out!
How dreadful shtrange they shtare! they sheem
Half to be dead, and half to dream!
The Camelot peoplesh alvaysh try
To look like that! I vonder vy?
Yet each hath got a lovely fashe!
Good Father Jacob shend them grashe!
O Jacob! blesh the lovely light,
That lit the moon that shtruck the knight,
That married the maid that carried the Jew,
That shold (as he intensh to do)
The golden locks and shilver rings
Of Braunighrinde and Fiddleshtrings!"
O miserie!
Thus having given thanks, he drew
His two-fold weapon cutting true;
O miserie!
And close he dipt, and clean and clear,
From crown and temple, nape and ear.
O miserie!
The wind in pity soughed and sighed!
The river beat the river side!
O miserie!
The willows wept to stand and see
The sweetest, softest heads that be,
O miserie!
In ghastliest baldness gleam dead-white,
And sink unhallowed out of sight!
O miserie!
But, lo, you! Ere kind earth could fold
Their shame within its bosom cold,
O miserie!
The moon had laught in mockery down,
And stampt a high-light on each crown!! . . .
O miserie!
Thrice muttering deep his mystic note,
The stillness of the night he smote:
O miserie!
Then, with a treasure dangling slack
From either shoulder adown his back,
O miserie!
He, whistling in his whistle, strode,
Nor felt he faint upon the road!
O miserie!
You may be sure that it was not
The road that leads to Camelot!
O miserie!
8
