The gentles ride in gay attire,
And in the sun each gilded spire
Shoots up like those of Rome!
The bishop the procession leads,
The generals curb their prancing steeds.
Alas! I know not Carcassonne—
Alas! I saw not Carcassonne!
"Our Vicar's right! he preaches loud,
And bids us to beware;
He says, 'O guard the weakest-part,