Wandering

The hawthorn blossoms in the woods,

snow lies still in the ditch.

The letter you wrote me today,

fills me with deep dismay.

I'll cut me now a stick and go,

to somewhere far away,

where pretty maids are not so proud,

to turn my love away.

The hawthorn blossoms in the woods,

I know no more dismay.

The letter which you wrote to me,

floats far out on the lake,

floats far out on the Constance lake,

yes, far out on the lake.