When I was born to a grey morning
A raven croaked in a tree
I never saw my mother
She died toward evening
Father lifted me into his arms
And looked at his little child
It would have been better, poor devil,
If you had gone with your mother
Hunger, misery as my company
I grew into a young man
Like my father, I too
Grabbed a mattock
Then the old man got sick
And died painfully
Last words, poor devil,
Don't bother to mourn
Through wind, flurry too
With head held high I go
Without father, mother
I close my sorrows into my soul
I'm not afraid of the last day
I'm not afraid of death
But with a smiling face this poor devil
Leaves eventually