Among the maidens of low degree
The poorest of all was Cicely--
A shabbier girl could hardly be.
“O I should like to see the feast,
But my frock is old, my shoes are pieced,
My hair is rough!”--(it never was greased).
The clock struck three! She durst not go!
But she heard the band, and to see the show
Crept after the people that went in a row.
When Cicely came to the castle gate
The porter exclaimed, “Miss Shaggypate,
The hall is full, and you come too late!”
Just then the music made a din,
Flute, and cymbal, and culverin,
And Cicely, with a squeeze, got in!
Oh what a sight! full fifty score
Of dames that Cicely knew, and more,
Filling the hall from daïs to door!
The dresses were like a garden-bed,
Green and gold, and blue and red,--
Poor Cicely thought of her tossy head!
She heard the singing--she heard the clatter--
Clang of flagon, and clink of platter--
But, oh, the feast was no such matter!
For she saw Sir Nicholas himself,
Raised on a daïs just like a shelf,
And fell in love with him--shabby elf!
Her heart beat quick; aside she stept,
Under the tapestry she crept,
Touzling her tossy hair, and wept!
Her cheeks were wet, her eyes were red--
“Who makes that noise?” the ladies said;
“Turn out that girl with the shaggy head!”