Often my father and mother I prayed

Not to send me up to the mountain high,

To the mountain cold, where the brigand strayed,

And waited to clutch me as I came nigh.

At this very hour at the highway cross,

He waits for the stranger to rob his gold,

The robbed has only his money's loss,

But the wretched robber his soul has sold.

In the morn I rise bloody clothes to lave,

In the early morn, where the stream runs still.

Why weepest thou, girl?"

No sorrows I have,

But my fire's sharp smoke has made my eyes fill."