Imre Bogár (The Tisza River is Troubled)

The Tisza is turbulent, ; It doesn't want to calm down. ; That famous Bogár Imre, ; He wants to go by. ; ; The innkeeper's daughter, ; She saw it at the window, ; – A horseman is coming from down there, ; Maybe Bogár Imre. ; ; His bridle is silver, ; His bridle is gold. ; My rosy-colored hair is a ribbon, ; On the bridle's reins. ; ; – The innkeeper's wife hears it, ; Ten liters of wine here! ; I'll make the county drink, ; Let it drink from it. ; ; The county is a rascal, ; It won't drink from it. ; That famous Bogár Imre, ; 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 little girl, ; For thirty forints, ; I threw her into the Tisza, ; For her innocent kiss. ; ; The Tisza did not take her in, ; She was thrown into its foam. ; A young fisherman came along, ; He took her in his net. ; ; He took her in his net, ; He took her home nicely. ; To the cemetery in Gímes, ; He buried her too. ; ; The Tisza dried up, ; Only his trace remained, ; Poor Imre Bogár died, ; Only his fame remained.