"Come, I will give you three small wands,
Upon your mother's grave to knock."
"Arise, arise, our mother dear,
Cold and ragged are your flock."
"I cannot rise, dear orphans three,
Within my shroud I'm dried to bone;
But you have now a second mother,
Who will tend you as her own."
"When she combs our tangled hair,
Her talons scratch and make us bleed,