And broken sheds, all sad and strange.
He shoo-ed them from the clinking latch,
And from the weeded, ancient thatch,
Upon the lonely moated grange.

He only said, "This thing is dreary.
She cometh not!" he said.
He said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I wish these flies were dead."

So PELLEAS made his moan. And every day,
Or moist or dry, he shoo-ed the flies away.
"These be the ways of ladies," PELLEAS saith,
"To those who love them; trials of our faith."

But ceaseless shoo-ing made the lady mad,
And she called out the best three knights she had,
And charged them, "Charge him! Drive him from the wall!
If he keeps on, we'll have no flies at all!"
And out they came. Each did his level best;
SIR PELLEAS soon killed one and slew the rest.

A bush of wild marsh-marigold,
That shines in hollows gray,
He cut, and smiling to his love,
He shoo-ed more flies away.

He clasped his neck with crooked hands;
In the hot sun in lonely lands,