May beetle, golden beetle;
I do not ask when summer will come;
I do not ask how long I shall live,
I only ask for my rose in bloom.
May beetle, golden beetle;
I do not ask for the summer's light,
For a summer's fire in my heart has burned,
Since my rose first flamed upon my sight.
The time will come, the time will come,
When you will come to weep before the house;