The palace is in mourning,
The king cries on his throne;
The queen is also crying,
She's crying all alone.
In handkerchiefs of pure lace
They cry in disbelief,
The nobles of the palace,
Beside themselves with grief.
The royal horses, once so bright,
Are now in black-array:
The horses did not eat last night —
Nor wanted food today.
The courtyard's stately laurel tree
Is stripped of all its leaves:
The people of the country
All carry laurel wreaths.
The king's son has died today:
The king's heir has passed away.

Upon the hill, the shepherd
Has built his simple home:
The shepherdess to ask is heard:
'Why does the sun still come?'
With lowered heads, the sheep
Approach the shepherd's door:
A box he's lining, long and deep,
Upon the cottage floor.
A sad dog keeps watch there;
From the hut is heard a moan:
'Little bird, take me where
My precious one has flown.'
The weeping shepherd takes the spade,
And sinks it in the bower,
And in the hole that he has made
The shepherd lays his flower.
The shepherd's son has died today,
The shepherd's heir has passed away.