'Fair, fair,' cry the ospreys
On the island in the river.
Lovely is this noble lady,
Fit bride for our lord.
In patches grows the water mallow:
To left and right one must seek it.
Shy was this noble lady;
Day and night he sought her.
Sought her and could not get her;
Day and night he grieved.
Long thoughts, oh, long unhappy thoughts,
Now on his back, now tossing on to his side.
In patches grow the water mallow;
To left and right one must gather it.
Shy is this noble lady;
With great zithern and little we hearten her.
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