THE night comes fast, I hear the oxen chewing,
The stars are very white and very little.
My mother cries "Come, girl, spin off thy distaff."

⁠Before I fill my pitcher
⁠I stoop to ask the water,
⁠Whether my face be fair,
⁠I know my eyes are shining,
⁠I see my lips are crimson,
⁠I hear my silver necklace
⁠Make music round my throat.
⁠But it is nothing to him, he cares not:
⁠The maize is golden in the sunshine,
⁠My hair is golden in the sunshine,
⁠He looks at the maize!

⁠I have a keepsake, but not one that he gave me.
⁠A little flower, a withered flower, I wear it in my breast: