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Corn Grinders

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


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? At fall of eventide he went To drink beside the river-head; A waiting hunter threw his dart, And struck my lover through the heart.
Alas! alas! my lord is dead.
O little bride, why dost thou weep With all the happy world asleep? Alas! alas! my lord is dead! Ah, who will stay these hungry tears, Or still the want of famished years, And crown with love my marriage-bed? My soul burns with the quenchless fire That lit my lover's funeral pyre: Alas! alas! my lord is dead.

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