Cusheen Loo [Italian translation]

Sleep, my child! for the rustling trees,

Stirr'd by the breath of summer breeze,

And fairy songs of sweetest note,

Around us gently float.

Sleep! for the weeping flowers have shed

Their fragrant tears upon thy head,

The voice of love hath sooth'd thy rest,

And thy pillow is a mother's breast.

Sleep, my child!

Weary hath pass'd the time forlorn,

Since to your mansion I was borne,

Tho' bright the feast of its airy halls,

And the voice of mirth resounds from its walls.

Sleep, my child!

Full many a maid and blooming bride

Within that splendid dome abide,

And many a hoar and shrivell'd sage,

And many a matron bow'd with age.

Sleep, my child!

Oh! thou who hearest this song of fear,

To the mourner's home these tidings bear.

Bid him bring the knife of the magic blade,

At whose lightning-flash the charm will fade.

Sleep, my child!

Haste! for tomorrow's sun will see

The hateful spell renewed for me;

Nor can I from that home depart,

Till life shall leave my withering heart.

Sleep, my child!

Sleep, my child! for the rustling trees,

Stirr'd by the breath of summer breeze.

And fairy songs of sweetest note,

Around us gently float.