Heinrich Heine - The prisoner's song.

When my grandmother Lisa bewitched one day,
The mob would have burnt her quite happily;
And though the judge tried hard, he found no way:
Her crime she refused to confess steadily.

And when they threw her in the caldron,
" It's bloody murder! " did she cry,
Then some black smoke rose and was gone,
And as a raven she did fly.

My little black-feathered grandmother dear,
Oh! come visit me in my dungeon,
Fly through the gratings and come to me here,
And bring cheese and cake for my luncheon.

My little black-feathered grandmother dear,
Oh! protect me from more suffering,
For my aunt will pick my eyes out, I fear,
Tomorrow, while I on the gallows swing.