O, hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight,

Thy mother a lady both lovely and bright;

The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see,

They all are belonging, dear babie, to thee.

O, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows

It calls but the warders that guard thy repose;

Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red,

Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed.

O, hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come,

When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum;

Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may,

For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.