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, 10
And wept because she’d 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?