'Gainst whom these noble knights did run, Sir Chinon and the rest, Yet still Tom Thumb, with matchless might, Did bear away the best. At last Sir Lancelot du Lake In manly sort came in, And with this stout and hardy knight A battle did begin. Which made the courtiers all aghast, For there that valiant man, Through Lancelot's steed, before them all, In nimble manner ran. Yea, horse and all, with spear and shield, As hardy he was seen, But only by king Arthur's self And his admired queen; Who from her finger took a ring, Through which Tom Thumb made way, Not touching it, in nimble sort, As it was done in play. He likewise cleft the smallest hair From his fair lady's head, Not hurting her whose even hand Him lasting honours bred. Such were his deeds and noble acts In Arthur's court there shone, As like in all the world beside Was hardly seen or known. Now at these sports he toil'd himself, That he a sickness took, Through which all manly exercise He carelessly forsook. When lying on his bed sore sick, King Arthur's doctor came, With cunning skill, by physic's art, To ease and cure the same. His body being so slender small, This cunning doctor took A fine perspective glass, with which He did in secret look-- Into his sickened body down, And therein saw that Death Stood ready in his wasted frame To cease his vital breath. His arms and legs consum'd as small As was a spider's web, Through which his dying hour grew on, For all his limbs grew dead. His face no bigger than an ant's, Which hardly could be seen; The loss of which renowned knight Much grieved the king and queen. And so with peace and quietness He left this earth below; And up into the fairy-land His ghost did fading go, Whereas the fairy-queen receiv'd, With heavy mourning cheer, The body of this valiant knight, Whom she esteem'd so dear. For with her dancing nymphs in green, She fetch'd him from his bed, With music and sweet melody, So soon as life was fled; For whom king Arthur and his knights Full forty days did mourn; And, in remembrance of his name, That was so strangely born-- He built a tomb of marble gray, And year by year did come To celebrate ye mournful death And burial of Tom Thumb. Whose fame still lives in England here, Amongst the country sort; Of whom our wives and children small Tell tales of pleasant sport.