Sleep, little rose... For the horse start to weep- Its hooves they are wounded - Its mane is of ice - A dagger of silver has pierced its great eye.- They go down to the river, - Oh, how they go down! - The water flows deeply but in blood the can drown.

The horse surely dies
It cries out to the mountains
It cries out to the march
Cries out to the river
In a voice loud and harsh
Cry for the horsey
That can't bear to drink
Cry for the river
With water black as ink.