| The Hawthorn Bush | |
| 'The dignified green hawthorn bush, | |
| lovely dwelling where praise grows, | |
| you are dressed in leaves and bark, | |
| 4 | enchanted youth, you are armoured. |
| You change your appearance frequently, | |
| your form is varied, dear one of the Lord. | |
| Your burden in May is lovely, | |
| 8 | colour of fine snow, better than money. |
| Truly radiant manner, armed tower, | |
| your armour is a fine coat of many colours. | |
| [You have had] a war–wound from your enemy. | |
| 12 | Woe is me! Where are you? How grim! |
| There isn't half of you left here | |
| nor even a third, colour of sparkling cherries. | |
| He cut off your legs, my treasure, | |
| 16 | vicious deed, and your thick branches. |
| Tell me, colour of a spray of foam, | |
| you have been punished, who did this'. | |
| 'I know no cause, | |
| 20 | I am weak and grievously wounded, |
| except the arch–scoundrel who came here | |
| (a shock for me yesterday) | |
| with an applewood–handled axe | |
| 24 | to chop and beat me from my quarter |
| and drag one of my legs off with him | |
| (woe is me, Mary!) | |
| and steal my goods and my branches | |
| 28 | and the fine tips and my precious stones.' |
| 'I saw you growing coral. | |
| Your top was fairer than an Englishman's shop. | |
| Be quiet, don't worry soldier, | |
| 32 | you shall have proper compensation for a man: |
| the churl will be killed by a song | |
| and strung up as dead as a dog'. | |