My little son, I wish you well, your mother's comfort when in grief, My pretty boy, what can I do? Will you not give one hour's relief? Sleep has just passed, and me he asked if this my son in slumber lay. Close, close your little eyes, my child; send your sweet breath far leagues away. You are the fount of rose water; you are with every beauty fraught. Sleep, darling son, my pretty one, my golden button richly wrought. |