All the night with golden sparks
Thou wouldst for me cry!
Since my love intends to wed,
Only ’cause another maid
Richer is than I.
Flowing waters meet each other,
And the winds, they blow and blow;
Sweetheart with her bright blue eyes
Stands and looks from her window.
Do not stand so at the window,
Rather come before the door;
If thou giv’st me two sweet kisses,
I will give thee ten and more.
In a green grove
Sat a loving pair;
Fell a bough from above,
Struck them dead there.
Happy for them,
That both died together;
So neither was left,
To mourn for the other.
THE LYING BIRD.
What chatters there the little bird,
On the oak tree above?
It sings, that every maid in love
Looks pale and wan from love.
My little bird, thou speak’st not
A lie hast thou now said;
For see, I am a maid in love,
And am not pale, but red.
Take care, my bird; because thou liest,
I now must punish thee;
I take this gun, I load this gun,
And shoot thee from the tree.
In the following fine ballad the German influence is manifest. It is extant in two different texts. We give it in Bowring’s version, which has less of amplification and embellishment than is usual in English translations.
THE DEAD LOVE.
I sought the dark wood where the oat grass
The maidens were there and that oat grass were mowing.
And I called to those maidens: “Now
say if there be
The maiden I love ’midst the maidens I see?”
And they sighed as they answered:
“Ah no! alas no!
She was laid in the bed of the tomb long ago.” 
“Then show me the way where my footsteps
To reach that dark chamber, where slumber the dead.”
“The path is before thee, her grave
will be known,
By the rosemary wreaths her companions have thrown.”
“And where is the church in church-yard,
Will point out the bed where the blessed one sleeps?”
So twice to the church-yard in sadness
But I saw no fresh heap and no grave that was new.
I turned, and with heart-chilling terror
And a newly made grave at my feet slowly rose.
And I heard a low voice, but it audibly
“Disturb not, disturb not the sleep of the dead!
“Who treads on my bosom? what footsteps
The dew from the bed where the weary one slept?”
“My maiden, my maiden, so speak
not to me,
My presents were once not unwelcome to thee!”
“Thy presents were welcome, but
none could I save,
Not one could I bring to the stores of the grave.