At the tavern by the road. In my eyes you'll be white. Winter will hold you fast here, Bridelike, in silver ice.
Sisters are linen weaving From threads of woe with skill.
Father his soul has mortgaged. Yes, I'll dance also From the bitterness of your woe. Come spring though, down the river We'll sail to the bright blue sea. The trains are leaving with a screech of metal. My grief too leaves along the telegraph wires.