Thrush, don't climb the tree.

Thrush, don't climb the tree, ; Rather climb my baby's window. ; Whistle the sad songs, ; They're taking, they're taking my baby to the soldier. ; ; I'm my mother's son, ; Yet they conscripted me to be a soldier. ; I drew the first note, ; We must leave her here, we must leave that brown little girl here. ; ; God be with you, Ogelle village, ; I will no longer be its resident; The flat one can bear roses, ; My weak feet, my weak feet will no longer tread on it.