A child of seven years

A child of seven years

Oh dear father my,
Where is my mother? –
Your mother is sleeping soundly,
Never let yourself be woken up.

Then the poor child ran
Quickly to the cemetery
And dug his little finger
A hole in the grave.

Oh dear mother my,
Oh, can I be with you?,
The other strikes me so much,
Don’t give me life anymore.

And give me the bread,
So she wishes me death;
But you, dear mother, yes you
You added butter and honey.

And she combs my hair,
So always bleeds;
But you, dear mother, yes you
You added colorful bows.

And she washes my shirt,
So there is no end to swearing;
But you, dear mother, yes you
Sang beautiful songs.

And bring me to rest,
Slam the door;
But you, dear mother, yes you
You gave me the blessing.

Go home, my child, go home,
Another mother is yours,
But you, my child, yes you –
And you stay mine forever.

1. A child of four and a half years,
That was already an orphan;
A child of four and a half years, yes year,
That was already an orphan

My dearest father,
Where is my mother;
Oh dearest father my, yes mine
Where is my mother

Your mother is dead,
It lies in the grave and rests;
Your mother is dead, yes dead
It lies in the grave and rests

Then the child ran quickly
Towards the mother’s grave;
Then the child ran quickly, even shrinking
Towards the mother’s grave

Then it dug a hole,
Oh dearest mother speak so;
Then it dug a hole, yes hole
Oh dearest mother so speak

It is difficult for me to speak,
The earth, it presses me so much;
It is difficult for me to speak, yes difficult,
The earth, it presses me so much

Run home my child, run home,
Another mother is yours;
Run home my child run home, yes home,
Another mother is yours

Then the child ran quickly
To the stepmother’s house;
Then the child ran quickly, even shrinking
To the stepmother’s house

She is now combing my hair,
The scalp even bleeds;
She is now combing my hair, yes hair,
The scalp even bleeds;
But you my little mother, you
You still added bows.
But you my little mother, you yes you
You still added bows.

And she washes my hands,
So she rubs until it burns;
And she washes my hands, yes hands
So she rubs until it burns;
But you my little mother, you
You still added soap.
But you my little mother, you yes you
You still added soap

And she smeared my bread,
So she wishes me death;
And she smeared my bread,
So she wishes me death;
But you my little mother, you
You still added honey.

And bring me to rest,
then she slams the door of the room;
And bring me to rest, yes rest
so she slams the door of the room;

But you my little mother, you
You still added kisses.
But you my little mother, you yes you
You still added kisses

The next morning red
By then the child was already dead;
The next morning red, yes red
By then the child was already dead;

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Christina Cherry
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