Imre Bogár (The Tisza River is Troubled)

The Tisza is turbulent, ; It does not want to calm down. ; That famous Imre Bogár, ; He wants to go by. ; ; His bridle is silver, ; His bridle is gold, ; A pink ribbon of my hair, ; The handle of his bridle. ; ; – The innkeeper hears, ; Here are ten liters of wine! ; I will make the county drink, ; Let it drink from it. ; ; The county is a rascal, ; It does not drink from it. ; That famous Imre Bogár, ; Get up on the chair. ; ; The bells are ringing at noon, ; But not for lunch. ; – Oh, my God, my many sins, ; Now they come to mind. ; ; I killed a hussar, ; For a beautiful gray horse. ; I threw him into the Tisza, ; For his thirty forints. ; ; Tisza did not take it, ; He threw it on the shore. ; A young fisherman came along, ; He took it in his net. ; ; The Tisza dried up, ; Only his trace remained. ; Poor Imre Bogár died, ; Only his reputation remained.