Charles I

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!”