The Player Queen

    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?