The flower of Alexandria, the roses red and white,
The little tender violets, the fountain waters clear,
I've tended you with love and care; the princess' hand will
blight.
"Give me my child, fruit of my womb, in my weak arms to
hold,
That he may feed upon the breast that swells with its last
breath.
It is my blood that he will drink, that runs so faint and cold.
Drink, little infant, drink the milk that's tinged with bitter