VII.
Cserebogár, sárga cserebogár.
May-beetle—gay little bird—fly near!
I ask not if summer will soon by here,
And I ask not if long my life shall be;
I ask—if I'm loved by my Rosalie?
And I ask thee not by a song or sign,
If another summer may yet be mine;
One summer has worn me with many a smart,
Since Rosa—fair Rosa—has won my heart.
Thou flittest away from flower to flower,
And thy wifie flies after through forest and bower;
I seek in them too for my Rosalie,
But never find her—she loves not me!
Thou drinkest from flowers their honey dew,
And callest with joy to thy wifie true!
But joy afar from my soul hath flown,
No love with its pleasure my heart hath known.
VIII.
Nincsen nekem semmi bajorn.
Naught in the wide-world troubles me,
Save this alone—my poverty;
A merry companion too am I,
Though my coat be ragged, my throat a-dry.
Bread I have none, but tatters enough,
And Fortune gives me many a cuff;
When I reckon together the money I've got,
There's never a farthing in all the lot.