The plow plowed the hard ground on the Kovács border

1. The plow is plowed, the ground is hard on the blacksmith's border, ; Alas, but I thought a lot about you, little angel, in the summer, ; I wish all my sighs would fly on dove wings, ; I could go to Sunday mass with my dove. ; ; 2. If you knew, little angel, that you don't love me, ; You would have saddened my poor, orphaned heart even more, ; You would have let my poor heart, my sick soul rest, ; Another young man could have taken care of it.