I am the branch of my mother's rose tree.

1. My mother, rose-tree, I am the branch, ; I am the first soldier of Ferenc Jóska. ; A hundred and twenty sharp needles press on my shoulder, my heart is heavy with grief, ; I must leave my dear baby here, my heart is killing me with grief, my baby, my heart is killing me with grief. ; ; 2. When I went towards Galicia, even the trees were crying, ; The falling leaves of the aspen tree were all crying for me. ; Cry, cry, aspen tree, fall on my baby's weak shoulder, ; Whisper into his ear, my heart hurts, hurts, hurts; do you understand, my baby, it hurts, hurts, my heart hurts for you.