Scharmel Iris

THE KING sent out your father to war

As once he sent my father before.

My wedding ring and the gold on my ear

Today have I bartered for bread, my dear.

The moon is dying, her throat is red,

The wind is crying, “Your father’s dead.”

The holy priest for saying a mass

Will take our gentle ox and our ass,

And we must give our cow away

To a man who digs the grave today.

The king has given us a reward—

A medal of bronze, and your father’s sword.

Grain there is none on the granary floor.

The lean wolf, Misery, howls at our door—

Until I wake and cut off my hair.

My son, I will keep you strong and fair,

For soon you shall take your father’s sword

And bring me the king’s head for reward.