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 me—O take me—thy bride shall become

The guardian—the mother—the charm of thy home;

Will rise with the morn,

Give the cattle their corn,

And the spindle my hands shall for ever adorn."

of wheat! thou golden blade,

Who shall harvest thee?

For my lover lingers far—

Will not come to me.

of wheat! thou golden blade,

Who shall bind thee round?

For my lover lingers far—

Where shall he be found?

! mother! mother mine!

Changeful is my heart,

Cleanse, O mother mine, away

All its fickle part.