Over the mountain the mountain wind blows,
My longing for my kindred grows.
Blows the breeze the trees among,
My brothers’ names shall fill my song.
When it creeps the flowers through,
My sisters sweet I think of you.
Leaf o’ the maple branching fair,
What cloud comes here, the wanderer—
Hast thou told to her forsaken
How her love’s for a conscript taken?