On the church-tower the magpie sits,
The goose is laid in a skillet:
And he whose heart’s corn snugly fits
Does not out loud have to trill it.
Come, dear one, and join the ring,
And dance the floor into shivers:
Don’t jest about the heart’s sharp sting:
For I know best where it quivers.
Hoist the canvas, the wind is fine,
When sailing I am in clover:
Each takes his own, so I take mine,
And hard luck if you’re left over.
Feel the swell that the good ship bears
From Gothenburg and to China:
He whose friend in his thoughts aye wears
Through hardships will always find her.
Birds now sing in the light-green bower,
and leafing branches give cover:
I think of every quiet hour
That I will spend with my lover!
Sit you down in the cold snow there,
Your brow you’ll save then from freezing:
And if my angel were less than fair,
I’d find some other more pleasing.