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?