True Love

A plough was ploughing near my garden
And near the plough a stripling stood;
So fair his form—I could not leave him,
I could not leave him if I would.

There is recruiting in the village;
They say, Wilt thou a soldier be?
And once I said, In truth I'm willing;
O! many a maiden wept for me.

The heaven is white, is white o'er Buda;
And lov'st thou me, my lovely one?
O if I lov'd thee not, had ever
Thy maid her arms around thee thrown?

But I have fallen now and anguish
Of body, heart, and soul is mine;
My youth I clad in weeds of sorrow,
And o'er departed pleasures pine.