Hand in Hand/The Woman's Child
The Woman's Child
LET not thy hands be idle, since that brings
Pain to the heart. Spin off thy distaff quickly,
While I sit alone at my distaff, I hear the voices of children,
The voices of the children who are passing;
I hear their laughter too, and the sound of their feet,
The little feet that run into other cottages;
But there is no one to run into mine.
My house is as silent as the grave,
As silent as the grave in the churchyard,
Where my little one is lying.
O little son, who only lived an hour,
If thou lived now, thou would'st be eight years old,
The garden would be full of sunshine for thee,
Thy father's cold heart full of gladness for thee,
Thy mother's sad heart full of pleasure for thee,
But thou art very far!
Yet tell me why thou would'st but live an hour?
Did life not promise happy years to thee
That thou did'st turn to death?
There had been many, many happy years,
Yet thou but lived an hour.
And I never saw thee living,
And I never saw thine eyes!
When I see a brown-eyed lad, I wonder
If thou art like him;
And if I see a blue-eyed lad, my heart says,
"Thy child is such an one,"
Yet I know not the colour of thine eyes,
And though I should travel as far as the moon does,
There is no one who can tell me, even at the end of the world!
Let not thy hands be idle, since that brings
Pain to the heart. Spin off thy distaff quickly.