Page:The Soul of a Century.djvu/35

  And my husband, God forbid, Stays wet on the dryest land. Human souls he keeps in cups Buried in the sand.

Sleep and rest my little darling With your greenish tresses, Know your mother married not Under love’s caresses.

But deceived and caught within A treacherous, stout net, She has here no other joy But you, my little pet.”

’Tis dark as a grave A wintery gale moans; From the hearth glowing warmth slowly spreads The fire-place roars grandmother nods and drones While the girls spin flax into threads.

Hum and whirl my spinning wheel, The end of Advent soon shall peal And closer, close comes Christmas Day.

To spin is a joyous task for a girl During the long wintery eves, That not in vain her spinning-wheels whirl The maiden firmly believes.

A day will come when someone shall say To the busy maid: “Come rejoice! You, be my loving bride today, Let me, be the man of your choice.

I will be yours and you will be mine, Give me your hand our love to betroth.” And the shy young maid who spun yarn so fine, Is now sewing a gown from the cloth.

Hum and whirl my spinning wheel, The end of Advent soon shall peal And closer, close comes Christmas Day.