The lilies lie in my lady's bower,
(Oh! weary mother, drive the cows to roost;)
They faintly droop for a little hour;
My lady's head droops like a flower.
She took the porcelain in her hand,
(Oh! weary mother, drive the cows to roost;)
She poured; i drank at her command;
Drank deep, and now—you understand!
(Oh! weary mother, drive the cows to roost.)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem