Lyrics

Come hither, my nightingale, leave our garden and come,
With your psalms bring slumber to the eyes of my son.
But oh, he’s crying! Nightingale, don’t come,
Tis not a deacon he wants to become.

Come hither, skylark, leave your pastures and fields,
Rock my baby gently, he’s longing for sleep.
But oh, he’s crying! Baby bird, don’t come,
It is not a monk he wants to become.

Leave your hunt and come, you brave-hearted hawk!
Tis your song, perhaps, that my son shall want.
As the hawk drew near, my baby grew quiet,
Fell asleep to war songs, his own silent riot.