Call Braunighrindas left her bed
At cock-crow with an aching head.
O miserie!
“I yearn to suffer and to do,”
She cried, “ere sunset, something new!
O miserie!
To do and suffer, ere I die,
I care not what. I know not why.
O miserie!
Some quest I crave to undertake,
Or burden bear, or trouble make.”
O miserie!
She shook her hair about her form
In waves of colour bright and warm.
O miserie!
It rolled and writhed, and reached the floor
A silver wedding-ring she wore.
O miserie!
She left her tower, and wandered down
Into the High Street of the town.
O miserie!
Her pale feet glimmered, in and out,
Like tombstones as she went about.
O miserie!
From right to left, and left to right;
And blue veins streakt her insteps white;
O miserie!
And folks did ask her in the street
“How fared it with her long pale feet?”
O miserie!
And blinkt, as though 'twere hard to bear
The red-heat of her blazing hair!
O miserie!
Sir Galahad and Sir Launcelot
Came hand-in-hand down Camelot;
O miserie!
Sir Gauwaine followed close behind;
A weight hung heavy on his mind.
O miserie!
“Who knows this damsel, burning bright,”
Quoth Launcelot, “like a northern light”?
O miserie!
Quoth Sir Gauwaine “I know her not!”
“Who quoth you did?” quoth Launcelot.
O miserie!
“'Tis Braunighrindas!” quoth Sir Bors.
(Just then returning from the wars.)
O miserie!
Then quoth the pure Sir Galahad
“She seems, methinks, but lightly clad!
O miserie!
The winds blow somewhat chill to-day.
Moreover, what would Arthur say!”
O miserie!
She thrust her chin towards Galahad
Full many an inch beyond her head. . . .
O miserie!
But when she noted Sir Gauwaine
She wept, and drew it in again!
O miserie!
She wept “How beautiful am I!”
He shook the poplars with a sigh.
O miserie!
Sir Launcelot was standing near;
Him kist he thrice behind the ear.
O miserie!
“Ah me!” sighed Launcelot where he stood,
“I cannot fathom it!” . . . (who could?)
O miserie!
Hard by his wares a weaver wove,
And weaving with a will, he throve;
O miserie!
Him beckoned Galahad, and said,—
“Gaunt Braunighrindas wants your aid . . .
O miserie!
Behold the wild growth from her nape!
Good weaver, weave it into shape!”
O miserie!
The weaver straightway to his loom
Did lead her, whilst the knights made room;
O miserie!
And wove her locks, both web and woof,
And made them wind and waterproof;
O miserie!
Then with his shears he opened wide
An arm-hole neat on either side,
O miserie!
And bound her with his handkerchief
Right round the middle like a sheaf.
O miserie!
“Are you content, knight?” quoth Sir Bors
To Galahad; quoth he, “Of course!”
O miserie!
“Ah, me! those locks,” quoth Sir Gauwaine,
“Will never know the comb again!”
O miserie!
The bold Sir Launcelot quoth he nought;
So (haply) all the more he thought.
O miserie!