Slumber, sweet Slumber, Who passest this way And seekest for news of my son, Go in peace, he sleepeth anon. Sleep, Sleep, that comest from the mountains, With a golden ball provided, Smite him gently on the brow, Harm him not, for he is tiny; Smite him on the brow but lightly, Spare him to his mother's love, Spare him for the future years to come, Years of help to her and father, too; He's little now and weakly, Send him golden strength in slumber. |