The wicket to open the count is not slack;
What, then, in his arms does he carry?
What, under his mantle may hidden he keep?
What bears he to distance, what treasure?
His daughter it is, there the child is asleep"—
The children are list'ning with pleasure.
"The morning is breaking, the world is so wide,
In valleys and mountains does shelter abide,
The villagers kindness are showing;
A minstrel, thus long he must wander and stride,
His beard long and longer is growing;
But lovely grows also the child on his arm,
As though he of wealth had rich measure;
His mantle protects her from every harm"—
The children are list'ning with pleasure.
"And time many years in its course onward drags,
The mantle is faded, it has fallen to rags,
It could her not hold any longer.
The father beholds her, his joy never flags,
Each day it grows stronger and stronger.
So noble, so beautiful she does appear,
He deems her beyond ev'ry treasure;
How rich she is making her father so dear!"—
The children are list'ning with pleasure.
"Up rides a princely and chivalrous knight,
She reaches her hand out, an alms to invite;
It is not such gift he would grant her.
The tender hand grasping with full, manly might:
'For life,' he exclaimed, 'I do want her!'
'Wilt make her a princess?' the old man replied,
'Dost recognise her as thy treasure?
Then be she betrothed on this verdant hillside!'"—
The children are list'ning with pleasure.
