God save the lass of Aben-Hall!
She hath my bleeding heart in thrall;
For one glance of her eyes so blue,
Some deed of danger I would do;
For one kiss of her lips so fine,
I’d shed my blood like German wine!
She hath no castles by the sea,
Or belted knights on bended knee;
She hath no gems or jewels rare,
Or any gold except her hair;
But she shall be a minstrel’s bride,
And tune his harp at evening-tide!
The high-born dames, in silk and fur,
Shall turn their heads to look at her;
The proudest maidens of them all
Shall praise the lass of Aben-Hall;
The king, upon his golden throne,
Shall sigh to call the maid his own!
And he shall send her jewels rare,
To have a ringlet of her hair;
And make her Lady of the Land,
To kiss her white and bonnie hand;
But she shall be a minstrel’s bride,
And tune his harp at evening-tide!