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?
