MY mother dandled me and sang, "How young it is, how young!' And made a golden cradle That on a willow swung. "He went away,' my mother sang, "When I was brought to bed,' And all the while her needle pulled The gold and silver thread. She pulled the thread and bit the thread And made a golden gown, And wept because she had dreamt that I Was born to wear a crown. "When she was got,' my mother sang, I heard a sea-mew cry, And saw a flake of the yellow foam That dropped upon my thigh." How therefore could she help but braid The gold into my hair, And dream that I should carry The golden top of care?