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O take me—O take me—thy bride shall become
The guardian—the mother—the charm of thy home;
Will rise with the morn,
Give the cattle their corn,
And the spindle my hands shall for ever adorn."Žito žito, žitečko!
Blade of wheat! thou golden blade,
Who shall harvest thee?
For my lover lingers far—
Will not come to me.
Blade of wheat! thou golden blade,
Who shall bind thee round?
For my lover lingers far—
Where shall he be found?
Mother! mother! mother mine!
Changeful is my heart,
Cleanse, O mother mine, away
All its fickle part.
