I'm a plain girl, whose hands are stained with earth.
He is a fisherman he's gay and keen.
The far white sail is drowning in the firth.
Many the seas and rivers he has seen.
The women of the Bosphorus, they say,
Are good-looking . . . and I—I'm lean and black.
The white sail drowns far out beyond the bay.
It may be that he never will come back.
I shall wait on in good and evil weather.
If vainly, take my wage, go to the sea
And cast the ring and hope away together.
And my black braid will serve to strangle me.