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Ach holka, holka.
O, maiden, maiden,
Thou hast black eyes:
Will they deceive me,
Will they despise?
"No! were they blacker,
Never would they,
Never—despise thee,
Never betray!"
Crows gather acorns
On the oak-tree;
God alone knoweth
Whose she shall be.
Whose but mine—she swore
Mine to be of yore;
'Twas behind our dwelling, she
Swore it 'neath the greenwood tree,
Mine alone to be!
