O, hush thee, my baby, thy sire was a knight,
Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright;
The woods and the glens, from the tow’r which we see,
They are all belonging, dear baby, to thee.
    O sleep, o sleep!
 
O, fear not the bugle, tho’ loudly it blows,
It calls but the wand’rers that guard thy repose;
Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red,
Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed.
    O sleep, o sleep!
 
O, hush thee, my baby, the time soon will come,
When thy sleep shall be broken with trumpet and drum;
Then hush thee, my baby, take rest while you may,
For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.
    O sleep, o sleep!