There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colours gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. But in her web she still delights To weave the mirrorâ€™s magic sights: A funeral, with plumes and lights And music, came from Camelot. â€œI am half-sick of shadows,â€ said The Lady of Shalott. â€œTirra lirra, tirra lirra,â€ Sang Sir Lancelot. She left the web: she left the loom: She looked down to Camelot.