A Cradle Song

Come little babe, come silly soul,

Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief,

Born as I doubt to all our dole,

And to thyself unhappy chief:

Thou little think'st and less dost know

The cause of this thy mother's moan;

Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe,

And I myself am all alone:

Come, little wretch—ah, silly heart!

Mine only joy, what can I more?

If there be any wrong thy smart,

That may the destinies implore:

And dost thou smile? O, thy sweet face!

Would God Himself He might thee see!—

No doubt thou wouldst soon purchase grace,

I know right well, for thee and me:

Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance

Thy father home again to send,

If death do strike me with his lance,

Yet mayst thou me to him commend:

Then will his gentle heart soon yield:

I know him of a noble mind:

Although a lion in the field,

A lamb in town thou shalt him find:

Then mayst thou joy and be right glad;

Although in woe I seem to moan,

Thy father is no rascal lad,

A noble youth of blood and bone:

Come, little boy, and rock asleep;

Sing lullaby and be thou still;

I, that can do naught else but weep,

Will sit by thee and wail my fill: