On the green stubble-fields of autumn
I saw you, my sweetheart
Nice were your feet in shoes
And wonderful your nimble gait
Your hair the color of roses
And your ringlets tightly plaited
Alas that we're not married
Or on board ship sailing away

The boys around here are
Complaining and getting fired up
And the ones with the high-piled hair
Are making homes for my brown-haired girl
If the King of Spain would
Go abroad with his assembled men
I would trample pasture and wilderness
And I would be with my brown-haired girl

If only my brown-haired girl and I
Were buying cows at the fair
Go and come first love
Until we go over to Gaoth-Bearra
Even if the tops of the branches were parted
And the swan were separated from the waves
That would not separate us
And those who go against us are foolish