“Till next Saturday, then, good-bye!” said Aennerl, panting only to turn her gold to account; and so full was she of calculation of what she would do with it, that she never noticed the poor old dwarf was coming behind her to light her, and singing, as he went,—
“The weary Bergmännl, old and grey,
Sits alone in a cleft of the earth for aye,
With never a friend to say, ‘Good day.’
For a thousand years, and ten thousand more,
He has guarded earth’s precious silver store,
Keeping count of her treasures of golden ore
By the light of the bright Karfunkelstein,
The only light of the Bergmännlein.
But never a friend to say, ‘Good day,’