Solemnly sighing
Like one a-dying,
The countess Clara on her pillow lay:
Along the pillow white,
Through the drear, drear, night
Her golden ringlets thickly cluster,
“Woe’s me, woe’s me!”
Thus did she sadly say,
“My punishment is just, what can be juster?
Yet am I wretched and in misery.
Why hath he left me here alone?
Why doth he thus delay his coming?
I hear no sound but the fitful drone
Of the beetle idly humming.
I live in woe and hopeless love,
And gaze on the lovely moon above.
The yellow moon, the yellow moon!
She looketh down aloft,
And through the dark and murky night
She sends her whispers soft.
With rays of light through the murky night
She makes the dark as noon,
Oh! would I were a screech owl now,
To woo the yellow moon!
Through distant lands of pleasantness
A region of despair
I wander on in weariness
And madly tear my hair.
Is it not so? Do not I hear his voice
Ah me! My heart, rejoice!
Woe, woe, woe, woe!
My brain it reels, my heart is all on fire,
As curls the smoke from yonder village spire!”
Alas, oh! no!
Sudden she hears a thundring charger’s stamp
She hears a horseman tramp
She hears a vacant tone
Still wild and wilder grown
“Ha! ha! ha! ha!
Some beer there, ho!
Who said so? hey?
Answer you baseborn churl!
One, two, three, four,
I took you for a door,
But still you are an earl!
Stay!
Fetch me the bottle, ’tis not empty yet!
What? Will you fret?
I didn’t do it, no!
I’ll bet you two to three I win—
What’s that?
Fish up that fish without a fin—
Fetch me my walking stick and hat—
Who trod upon the collar of my coat?
I do not care a groat.
Fill, fill the cup—
Let’s have a sup!
Have not I rid the livelong night?
Dear me! I cannot stand upright!”
At the sound of his voice, and at his tone,
The Lady Clara gave a moan,
Thus said she, “Oh!
Oh! what a go!
What did he say? I did not understand.
The gaiety, the sadness of the land
Through bounding binnocks ever flows
Like the red rose!
The smoke it curls, the chimney topples near!
The stars all quake for fear!
Ah me! I make my troublous moan,
But he is wild and wilder grown,
His wrath is hot,
Oh! is it not?
“I shriek with agony’s attack,
I scream with sudden pain,
I would I were a maniac!
I would I were insane!”
Through the dim darkness of the night,
She saw a vision bright,
An aged, hoary monk,
Thus he the silence broke,
And thus he spoke,
Extending forth his shrivelled hand,
It seemed a mountain, dimly grand,
That did before the Lady stand.
“Weep not for him, Lady fair!
Tear not off thy golden hair!
Do not scream, and do not faint,
Utter not thy loud complaint,
He’s only swallowed too much beer,
He’ll not come to any harm,
Don’t waste time in useless fear,
And indulge not in alarm!
Go down and let thy guilty husband in.”
Thus spake the monk,
“He’s only been a drinking too much gin,
And got dead drunk!”
Moral: “Woo the yellow moon.”