Then the monks chanted in their low, measured tones,
"Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis!
Mater Christi, ora, ora!"
"Cursed be my lot, but useless is repining,
Here must I stay till dreary day is gone,
Living only in the pale moon's shining;
To-night my hated penance though is done.
Gaily, gaily, gaily I'll live
Though I be but a spirit of air;
Every pleasure the world can give