’Tis faulty spinning, dear.
A cradle built of thornwood,
A nest for thee, my bird.
I hear thy crooning, wee one,
And ah, this fluttering heart.
Strumm, strumm!
How ruthlessly I spinn!
My wheel doth wirr an empty song, my dear,
For tendrill nodding yonder
Doth nod in vain, my sweet;