And if no pretty girl there be, The light may soon go out for me! And if you have a maiden fair, Then be its light extinguished there! For when its gleaming rays we miss, 'Tis easier far, a girl to kiss. III. _Duna, duna, szeles duna!_ Gladly will they make me think, They who of the Danube drink; That in its tide the pickerel swims, And maidens bathe their snowy limbs. Great and Small-Comorn afar! Oh how sweet three maidens are! To the one I'll wedded be, And the fairest of the three! IV. _Szeles a dunaviz._ The Danube's stream is broad, The bridge is weak I know; Take heed my own dear love, Or else thou fall'st below! I shall not fall below, No fear my soul alarms; But soon my love I'll fall, Into thy burning arms! V. _Golya, golya, de messze megy!_ Far, far the Stork now flies!--ah me! And far am I, true love from thee! My captive chains me and I cannot move, That he may win from me my love. Deep in the grave my parents lie, My land's a broad heath waste and dry; Great suffering and sorrow still are mine, Yet I can drown them all in wine! VI. _Micsoda csardaez? be csinos?_ What inn is this which here I see? Therein a pretty girl may be! And if no lovely damsel, Be in the tavern now; Then let us hang its landlord, Upon the nearest bough. But see! a goat is grazing nigh, A dark-brown maiden is standing by. Then hey my jolly comrade! There's milk I trow for both; The maiden too will kiss us. She shall, I'll take my oath! VII. _Cserebogar, sarga cserebogar._ May-beetle--gay little bird--fly near! I ask not if summer will soon by here, And I ask not if long my life shall be; I ask--if I'm loved by my Rosalie? And I ask thee not by a song or sign, If another summer may yet be mine; One summer has worn me with many a smart, Since Rosa--fair Rosa--has won my heart. Thou flittest away from flower to flower, And thy wifie flies after through forest and bower; I seek in them too for my Rosalie, But never find her--she loves not me! Thou drinkest from flowers their honey dew, And callest with joy to thy wifie true! But joy afar from my soul hath flown, No love with its pleasure my heart hath known. VIII. _Nincsen nekem semmi bajorn._ Naught in the wide-world troubles me, Save this alone--my poverty; A merry companion too am I, Though my coat be ragged, my throat a-dry. Bread I have none, but tatters enough, And Fortune gives me many a cuff; When I reckon together the money I've got, There's never a farthing in all the lot.