From bells of Tarja the sad notes flow:

Faded the sweetheart of the brave youth.

Three doves are ringing the bells of woe,

To mourn their sister in love and truth.

With lily flowers they painted her shroud,

And that is why't is so pure and white.

Her love bends o'er it, and weeps aloud;

His heart's black tears its radiance blight.

They planted rosemary on her grave;

Weeping he followed his sweetheart's hearse.

His tears were dew where grave grasses wave:

"Return my love or have my curse!"

Her linen chemise none will wash now,

Except the rain of his weeping eyes;

The tangled curls on her pallid brow

No one will caress with soothing sighs.

Again at Tarja the bells ring slow—

For the youth himself they sadly toll.

He wept so much for his dove laid low,

To-day they weep his own parting soul.

Young maids, young maids of Tarja's plum grove,

By constant presence pay love's debts.

For a young man's heart breaks for his dove,

While a young girl's heart weeps and forgets.