In the charcoal-burner’s hut in the wood
Sits the king, an object of pity;
The charcoal-burner’s child’s cradle he rocks,
And sings this monotonous ditty:
“Eiapopeia, why rustles the straw?
“The sheep in the stalls bleat loudly;
“Thou bearest the sign on thy forehead, and smil’st
“In thy sleep so wildly and proudly.
“Eiapopeia, thou bear’st on thy brow
“The sign,—and dead is the kitten;
“When grown to manhood, thou’lt flourish the axe,
“And the oak in the wood will be smitten.
“The charcoal-burner’s religion is dead,
“And now no longer receive they,—
“Eiapopeia,—the faith in a God,
“Still less in the king believe they.
“The kitten is dead, and the mice rejoice
“And we from their presence are driven,—
“Eiapopeia,—I, monarch on earth,
“And God, the monarch in heaven.
“My heart grows sicker day by day,
“My brow grows sterner and sterner;
“Eiapopeia,—my headsman art thou,
“Thou child of the charcoal-burner!
“My song of death is thy cradle-song—
“Eiapopeia—thou’lt fumble
“My grey locks about, and cut them off,—
“Thine axe on my neck will tumble.
“Eiapopeia,—why rustles the straw?
“Thou hast gained a kingdom splendid;
“Thou strikest off from my body my head,—
“The life of the kitten is ended.
“Eiapopeia,—why rustles the straw?
“The sheep in the stalls bleat loudly;
“The kitten is dead, and the mice rejoice,—
“My dear little headsman, sleep proudly!”