O bed in my mother’s house
with sheets as white as May
With blankets wove of carded wool
and scented with new-mown hay

With the poke of the feathered down
from her snow-white plumy geese
Oh, bed of mine in my mother’s house
With sleep that was dreamy peace

Oh, far have I walked forlorn
Oh, bed that my mother made
I would that your sheet might be my shroud
And I in earth be laid.