A little girl, with tender hands,
Went with the birds to play;
The little birds, with golden wings,
So swiftly flew away.

'Pray leave me not, oh little birds;
Oh stay with me, I pray;
I did not mean to do you harm.
With you I came to play.'

The little birds sailed on the air,
Would not the calling heed;
But gave a flutter of their wings,
As to increase their speed.

The earth, in wheeling on her course,
Giving a mighty hum,
Said, 'Do not cry, my little one;
To earth they soon will come.

'Before my sceptre all must bend—
The high, the low, the good;
I keep with me the great storehouse
From which they get their food.'