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?
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