Page:The Golden Threshold.djvu/45



O little mouse, why dost thou cry While merry stars laugh in the shy?

Alas! alas! my lord is dead! Ah, who will ease my bitter pain? He went to seek a millet-grain In the rich farmer's granary shed; They caught him in a baited snare, And slew my lover unaware: Alas! alas! my lord is dead.

O little deer, why dost thou moan, Hid in thy forest-bower alone?

Alas! alas! my lord is dead! Ah! who will quiet my lament?