HILDA, SPINNING
Spinning, spinning, by the sea,
All the night!
On a stormy, rock-ribbed shore,
Where the north winds downward pour,
And the tempests fiercely sweep
From the mountains to the deep,
Hilda spins beside the sea,
All the night!
All the night!
On a stormy, rock-ribbed shore,
Where the north winds downward pour,
And the tempests fiercely sweep
From the mountains to the deep,
Hilda spins beside the sea,
All the night!
Spinning, at her lonely window,
By the sea!
With her candle burning clear,
Every night of all the year,
And her sweet voice crooning low,
Quaint old songs of love and woe,
Spins she at her lonely window,
By the sea.
By the sea!
With her candle burning clear,
Every night of all the year,
And her sweet voice crooning low,
Quaint old songs of love and woe,
Spins she at her lonely window,
By the sea.
On a bitter night in March,
Long ago,
Hilda, very young and fair,
With a crown of golden hair,
Watched the tempest raging wild,
Watched the roaring sea—and smiled
Through that woeful night in March,
Long ago!
Long ago,
Hilda, very young and fair,
With a crown of golden hair,
Watched the tempest raging wild,
Watched the roaring sea—and smiled
Through that woeful night in March,
Long ago!
