The royal feast was done；the king Sought some new sport to banish care，And to his jester cried：“Sir Fool，Kneel down and make for us a prayer！”
And stood the mocking court before；They could not see the bitter smileBehind the painted grin he wore.
He bowed his head，and bent his knee Upon the monarch’s silken stool；His pleading voice arose：“O Lord，Be merciful to me，a fool！
“No pity，Lord，could change the heart From red with wrong to white as woolThe rod must heal the sin；but，Lord，Be merciful to me，a fool！
Of truth and right，O Lord，we stay；’Tis by our follies that so longWe hold the earth from heaven away.
“These clumsy feet，still in the mire，Go crushing blossoms without end；These hard，wellmeaning hands we thrust Among the heartstrings of a friend.
“The illtimed truth we might have keptWho knows how sharp it pierced and stung？
The word we had not sense to sayWho knows how grandly it had rung？
The chastening stripes must cleanse them all，But for our blundersoh，in shameBefore the eyes of heaven we fall.
“Earth bears no balsams for mistakes；
Men crown the knave，and scourge the tool That did his will；but Thou，O Lord，Be merciful to me，a fool！”
The room was hushed；in silence rose The King，and sought his gardens cool，And walked apart，and murmured low，“Be merciful to me，a fool！”