Nightingale, oh, leave our garden,

Where soft dews the blossoms steep;

With thy litanies melodious

Come and sing my son to sleep!

Nay, he sleeps not for thy chanting,

And his weeping hath not ceased.

Come not, nightingale! My darling

Does not wish to be a priest.

O thou thievish, clever jackdaw,

That in coin findest thy joy,

With thy tales of gold and profit

Come and soothe my wailing boy!

Nay, thy chatter does not lull him,

And his crying is not stayed.

Come not, jackdaw! for my darling

Will not choose the merchant’s trade.

Wild dove, leave the fields and pastures

Where thou grievest all day long;

Come and bring my boy sweet slumber

With thy melancholy song!

Still he weeps. Nay, come not hither,

Plaintive songster, for I see

That he loves not lamentations,

And no mourner will he be.

Leave thy chase, brave-hearted falcon!

Haply he thy song would hear.

And the boy lay hushed, and slumbered,

With the war-notes in his ear.