Back in the stream,
And the willows bowed above her.
The mother comes to walk by the river side.
’Tis weary in the palace,
And the lord is not at home.
She comes to the bank, thinks of her little one
Whom she plunged in with muttered charms.
What matters it? She would go back to the palace,
But no, hers is another fate.
She noticed not how the river maidens hastened