Part 5.
THE castle weeds have grown so tall
Knights cannot see the red brick wall.
O miserie!
The little drawbridge hangs awry,
The little flowery moat is dry!
O miserie!
And the wind, it soughs and sighs alway
Through the grey willows, night and day!
O miserie!
And evermore two willows there
Do weep, whose boughs are always bare:
O miserie!
At all times weep they, in and out
Of season, turn and turn about!
O miserie!
But later, when the year doth fall,
And other willows, one and all,
O miserie!
In yellowing and dishevelled leaf
Sway haggard with their autumn grief,
O miserie!
Then do these leafless willows now
Put forth a rosebud from each bough!
O miserie!
What time Gauwaine, with spurless heels,
Barefoot (but not bare-headed) kneels
O miserie!
Between! . . . as fits a bigamous knight
Twice widowed in a single night:
O miserie!
And then, for that promiscuous way
Of axing Hebrews in broad day,
O miserie!
He ever uttereth a note
Of Eastern origin remote. . . .
O miserie!
A well-known monochord, that tells
Of one who, wandering, buys and sells!
O miserie!
What time the knights and damsels fair
Of Arthur's court come trooping there,
O miserie!
They come in dresses of dark green,
Two damsels take a knight between:
O miserie!
One sad and sallow knight is fixt
Dyspeptic damsels twain betwixt!
O miserie!
They speak not, but their weary eyes
And wan white eyelids droop and rise
O miserie!
With dim dead gaze of mystic woe!
They always take their pleasure so
O miserie!
In Camelot. . . . It doth not lie
With us to ask, or answer, why!
O miserie!
Yet, seeing them so fair and good,
Fain would we cheer them, if we could!
O miserie!
And every time they find a bud,
They pluck it, and it bleeds red blood.
O miserie!
And when they pluck a full-blown rose,
And breathe the same, its colour goes!
O miserie!
But with Gauwaine alone at night,
The willows dance in their delight!
O miserie!
The rosebuds wriggle in their bliss,
And lift them for his lips to kiss!
O miserie!
And if he kiss a rose instead,
It blushes of a deeper red!
O miserie!
And if he like it, let him be!
It makes no odds to you or me!
O miserie!
O many-headed multitude,
Who read these rhymes that run so rude,
O miserie!
Strive not to fathom their intent!
But say your prayers, and rest content
O miserie!
That, notwithstanding those two cracks
He got from Gauwaine's battle-axe,
O miserie!
The Hebrew had the best of it!
So, Gentles, let us rest a bit.
O miserie!
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