Where the Tisza's torrents through the prairies swell
I, the fisher with my lonely mother dwell.
Come, sweet maiden, come for shelter home with me,
Come, sweet maiden, my old mother shall tend thee.

O'er the level lowland fields the tempest glooms,
In the distant western sky the storm-cloud looms;
Sweetest maid the rain will wet your scarf of silk,
Chill your snow-white neck and shoulders white as milk.

Now the storm-clouds fall away from the blue sky,
Now my fisher lad from thee I go, good bye.
May God bless thee, happy be thy fate and lot,
And sometimes remember me, forget me not.

So the maiden walks away with steps so light,
Waves the silken scarf back to me, still snow-white.
Best for me, if far away from her I'd kept,
Flow'rs of sorrrow only bloom where she has stept.