Ever mirthless, ever sad
Are these watery lands,
Half in light and half in shadow
The days by days advance.
The Water-sprite has a large gay court
Filled with many a treasure.
Against their will the guests are held,
Never for their pleasure.
He who comes into this court
Beneath its crystal dome,
Never more shall see or hold
His beloved ones at home.
At the gates the Water-sprite
His tattered nets is mending,
While his youthful wife, nearby
A little babe is tending.
“Sleep my dear unwanted babe,
’tis for you I am crying,
While you’re smiling up at me
I with grief am dying.
Joyfully you stretch towards me
Two small hands so brave,
I would rather see myself
On earth, within a grave.
There on earth, beyond the church,
Where the black crosses stand,
My old mother would have me
Close and near at hand.
Sleep and rest my little boy,
My little water-sprite ,
How can I try not to think
Of mother, in my plight.
How she worried, poor old soul,
Who should be my groom,
And before many a day,
I had met my doom.
I am married, married now
But against my wishes,
For our best men stood black crabs,
For my bridesmaids . . . fishes.
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