What chatters then the little bird,
On the oak tree above?
It sings, that every maid in love
Looks pale and wan from love.

My little bird, thou speak'st not true,
A lie hast thou now said;
For see, I am a maid in love,
And am not pale, but red.

Take care, my bird; because thou liest,
I now must punish thee;
I take this gun, I load this gun,
And shoot thee from the tree.