"Where go ye, dear orphans three?"

"Far from this place for work to seek."

"Oh, do not go, dear orphans three,

For work you are too small and weak."

"Come, I will give you three small wands,

Upon your mother's grave to knock."

"Arise, arise, our mother dear,

Cold and ragged are your flock."

"I cannot rise, dear orphans three,

Within my shroud I'm dried to bone;

But you have now a second mother,

Who will tend you as her own."

"When she combs our tangled hair,

Her talons scratch and make us bleed,

And when she gives us food to eat,'

'T is with curses she would feed."