But a lambkin white, With eyes soft and bright, Since the break of day Bleats so piteously, Does not cease to bleat, No more grass will eat. “Little lambkin white, Thou my favorite, Why since break of day Bleat so piteously? Never cease to bleat, No more grass wiltst eat, O my lambkin sweet, Wherefore dost complain? Say, dost suffer pain?” “Gentle shepherd, master dear, Prithee but my warning hear; Lead away thy flock of sheep Where the woodland shades are deep; There in peace can we abide— Forests dense there are to hide. Shepherd, shepherd! list to me; Call thy dog to follow thee; Choose the fiercest one of all, Ear most watchful to thy call, For the other herds have sworn Thou shalt die before the morn!” “Little lamb, if true dost say, Hast the gift to prophesy, And if it must come to pass That I thus shall die, alas! Is it written that my life Thus shall end a cruel knife, Tell the shepherds where to lay My cold body in the clay. Near unto my sheep Would I wish to sleep, From the grave to hark When the sheep-dogs bark. On the mound I pray Three new flutes to lay: One of beech-wood fine be made, Sings of love that cannot fade; One carved out of whitest bone, For my broken heart makes moan; One of elder-wood let be, For its tones are proud and free. When at evenfall ’Gin the winds to call, List’ning to the sound, Gather then around All my faithful sheep, Bloody tears to weep. But that I am dead Let no word be said: Tell them that a queen Passing fair was seen, Took me for her mate; That we sit in state On a lofty throne; That the sun and moon Held the golden crown, And a star fell down Straight above my head. Say, when I was wed, Oak-tree, beech, and pine, All were guests of mine At the wedding-feast; And the holy priest Was a mountain high. Made sweet melody Thousand birds from near and far, Every torch a golden star. But if thou shouldst meet, Oh, if thou shouldst meet, A poor haggard matron, Torn her scarlet apron, Wet with tears her eyes, Hoarse with choking sighs, ’Tis my mother old, Running o’er the wold, Asking every one, ‘Have you seen my son? In the whole land none Other was so fair, With such raven hair, Soft to feel as silk; Like the purest milk, None had skin so white; None had eyes so bright, As a pair of sloes. And where’er he goes, Shepherd none there be Half so fair as he!’ Lamb, oh pity take, Else her heart will break.