My mother dandled me and sang,
„How young it is, how young!”
And made a golden cradle
That on a willow swung.
„He went away,” my mother sang,
„When I was brought to bed,”
And all the while her needle pulled
The gold and silver thread.
She pulled the thread and bit the thread
And made a golden gown,
And wept because she had dreamt that I
Was born to wear a crown.
„When she was got,” my mother sang,
„I heard a sea-mew cry,
And saw a flake of the yellow foam
That dropped upon my thigh.”
How therefore could she help but braid
The gold into my hair,
And dream that I should carry
The golden top of care?