Page:Bohemian poems, ancient and modern (Lyra czecho-slovanska).djvu/96



Y dearest, dearest mother! Come tell, O tell to me, What that, which in my bosom Unceasing plays can be?

It playeth and it singeth, Sometimes about it springs; Sure shut up in my bosom’s A little bird with wings.

Up stairs a cage is ready, O go and fetch it here, We’ll catch the little birdie, And close confine him there.

We’ll place him in the window, And he to us shall sing, Both when we’re at our supper, And when we’re breakfasting.