Were we but only past the hill! There sits my mother upon a stone My brain,
alas, is cold with dread! There sits my mother upon a stone, And to and fro
she shakes her head; She winks not, she nods not, her head it droops sore;
She slept so long, she waked no more; She slept, that we might taste of bliss:
Ah! those were happy times, I wis!
Since here avails nor argument nor prayer, Thee hence by force I needs must
Loose me! I will not suffer violence! With murderous hand hold not so fast! I
have done all to please thee in the past!