That's what the vernacular calls it. I pray for you every night,
I have seen and loved you, the blue-eyed king!
And then you saw me, and I was allowed to talk to you and caress your hairless hair.
And you kissed me. My King, I'm just a simple maid,
but now richer than the mistress of the estate and probably even the queen.
No one else will ever kiss me again, and if you die, I die too.
It is certainly a sin to love a king and to die with him, but it is war and death everywhere.
There, I think, must be said quickly, what makes me so happy,
because maybe tomorrow you will not hear it anymore, and I can not say it anymore,
because the death in between.
And then the pastor also thinks: When fighting is done, many crooked things are straight.
So it's probably not a sin,