My heart is a fiery fruit
Hanging high upon the branch;
You can pluck it and taste it
With all my sweet fresh.
O, dear maid,
What are you hesitant for?
Rise to your tiptoes, please;
Be it beyond your reach,
I will swing it low to you;
Be it still above,
I will pluck it myself with pains
And let it come right to your palms.
But do remember, please,
To spread your palms tender,
And don’t, don’t let my heart break
And fall into pieces.