Too-da-loo tomorrow son at dawn's call;
Whisper, she might soon tear the wall of stars.
A night of gathering, a night of all:
a calm quiet before the start of wars.

Too-da-loo to you dear boy, traveller.
A knight of quest, a spawn of soil's paths laid
before the feet of nameless gypsies, stirs
your young soul to unrest with plans unmade!

Too-da-loo to a scholar, to a child,
for you bloom tomorrow with sweet suckle,
given from keen wisdom's vine that grows wild
amid the plants' mingling touch blowing tall.

For you my child: A tale of life's pursuit
into the wild of your own. Now, be I mute.