"What is the reason, my beloved,
That you do not love me?
Am I not the right height?
Is my family not good enough?
Or is it because I have no mother,
And am a poor orphan?
I am poor, I have no mother,
I disclose a secret love.
I wanted to plait a wreath for you
Of red roses,
But now I shall weave one for you
Of bitter wormwood.
In my room a nightingale sings,
But I hear it not;
All for this my dear beloved,
That you love me not.
In the yard's a well with water,
But I drink it not;
This the reason, my beloved,
That you love me not.
I shall curse my own dear mother,
Ah, how sad am I.
I shall curse my own dear mother,
Ah, how sad am I,
That she gave me away to someone,
Whom I did not love,
That she gave me away to someone,
Whom I did not love."

Translated by Albert B. Lord, in Bela Bartok and Albert B. Lord, Serbo-Croatian Folk Songs (New York: Columbia University Press, 1951), 419.