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 those who go against us are foolish That would not separate us And the swan were separated from the waves