The little Tartar maiden

The little Tartar maiden

That tends my master's sheep -

She makes a lamb her pillow,

When she lies down to sleep.

She parts her gray tent curtains

Before the morn is seen,

And drives our flocks together,

To pastures fresh and green.

My heart goes with the maiden,

For when I wake I find

No heart within my bosom,

No happy peace of mind.

I track the lost lamb's footsteps,

And find it fast asleep,

Beside the little maiden

Among my master's sheep.