Woe! woe! woe! the winds are wailing.
The four great sisters, the winds of the world,
Call one to the other, and it is thy doom
They are calling, Jerusalem.
Woe! woe! woe!
The North brings ruin, the South brings sorrow,
The East wind grief, and the West wind tears
For Jerusalem.
Woe! woe! woe!

And he sung this little song several times, till the hearts of the
disciples hardened against the outcast and they were minded to beat him
if he did not cease; but the swineherd warned them that a surer way to
silence him was by giving him some food; and while he stood by eating,
the swineherd confided the story of the fool, or as much of it as he
knew, to Jesus. The fool, he said, came from Jerusalem some two years
ago. He had been driven out of the Temple, which he frequented daily,
crying about the courts the song with which he wearied you just now,
till the most patient were unable to bear it any longer; and every time
he met a priest he looked into his face and sang: woe! woe! woe! unto
Jerusalem, and whenever he met a scribe he would cry: woe! woe! woe!
unto Jerusalem, hindering them in their work about the Temple. Some
stones were thrown, but enough life was left in him to crawl away, and
as soon as he recovered from his wounds he was about again, singing his
melancholy ditty (he knows but one). He was told if he did not cease he
would be beaten with rods, but he could not cease it, and started his
ditty again as soon as he could bear a shirt on his back; and then he
must have travelled up here afoot, picking up a bit here and a bit
there, getting a lift in an ox-cart. He is without memory of anything,