Young nightengale with liquid voice, How sad your song doth be. I heard your tale of weary plight Drift on the wind to me, And in this tower of blackened stone, A prisoner do I see. Let fall the golden rope, dear maid, And I shall climb to you. The witch, your captor, ne’er shall find The place we shall ’scape to, For we, your golden hair will cut And flee, both me and you. I, your gallant knight will be, Strong and brave and tall. You, a wonderous Queen, will sit And rule over all, If only, dear lass, you hearken me, And let your hair now fall.