What makes thee weep so, little child, 
What cause hast thou for all this grief ? 
When thou art old much cause may be, 
And tears will bring thee no relief. 

Thou dost not know thy mother yet, 
Thou'dst sleep on any bosom near; 
Thou dost not see a daughter dying, 
No son is coughing in thy ear. 

Thy father is a bearded man. 
Yet any bearded man could take 
Thee in his arms, and thou not know 
Which man would die for thy sweet sake. 

What makes thee weep then, little child, 
What cause hast thou for all this bother; 
Whose father could be any man, 
And any woman be thy mother?