The poem
My mother dandled me and sang, 'How young it is, how young!' And made a golden cradle That on a willow swung.
'He went away,' my mother sang, 'When I was brought to bed,' And all the while her needle pulled The gold and silver thread.
She pulled the thread and bit the thread And made a golden gown, And wept because she had dreamt that I Was born to wear a crown.
'When she was got,' my mother sang, I heard a sea-mew cry, And saw a flake of the yellow foam That dropped upon my thigh.'
How therefore could she help but braid The gold into my hair, And dream that I should carry The golden top of care?