The Red Cranberry has withered
Over the well. . . .
Woe to me, my mother,
With a drunkard to live!
A drunkard drinks day and night;
He does not work.
When he comes home from the Inn,
Though I be young, young,
Yet he strikes me!

I open the casement
As my mother comes.
She asks of my little ones:
“Is the drunkard home?”

Carefully, softly
Enter, my mother!
My drunkard sleeps,
Sleeps in the barn—
See thou wake him not!

“May he sleep!
May he never wake!
That he on thy little head
Bring no more grief.”

“Oi, my mother!
Abuse not my drunkard.
Tiny are my children—
Without him
Would it not be worse?”