Father.
Well, then, let thy parent's moan
Move thee in thy soul, my son!
Mourning for thee made a monk,
Dead-alive in darkness sunk.
Son.
They who father, mother love,
And their God neglect, will prove
That they are in error found
When the judgment trump shall sound.
Father.
Logic! would thou ne'er hadst been
Known on earth for mortal teen!
Many a clerk thou mak'st to roam
Wretched, exiled from his home.—
Never more thine eyes, my son,
Shall behold thy darling one,
Him, that little clerk so fair,
N., thy friend beyond compare!
Son.
Oh, alas! unhappy me!
What to do I cannot see;
Wandering lost in exile so,
Without guide or light I go!—
Dry your tears, my father dear,
Haply there is better cheer;
Now my mind on change is set,
I'll not be a monk, not yet.