A gay youth goes to seek a wife in a country not his own;
She is young as she is pretty, not yet a woman grown,
So young she has not even learned to dress herself alone.

On Monday he has married her, on Tuesday he 's away,
The youth has gone off to the war for seven years to stay.
And so poor Fiorenza is left alone again.

When there comes riding by the Moor, the great Moor Saracen.
He has stolen Fiorenza and carried her to Spain.
When the seven years are finished, the youth come home once more;
“O Fiorenza, it is I; come open me the door.”

Cries his mother at the window: “You look for her in vain;
Fiorenza has been stolen by the great Moor of Spain.”

“O mother, throw me down my sword, with the hilt of gold so fine;
Though I should die upon the road, I will find this love of mine.”

He has found three washerwomen, washing beside the way:
“Now whose is that great castle, good women, can you say?”

“It is the castle of the Moor, the great Moor Saracen:
Fiorenza's there these seven years, and goes not home again.”

“Tell me, good washerwomen, how could one enter there?”
“You must put your fine clothing off, and like a pilgrim fare;
This evening or to-morrow, go beg for alms,” they said,
“And pretty Fiorenza will give you wine and bread.”
. . . . . . .
The Moor is at the window, and far away looks he:

“See the pilgrim, Fiorenza, who comes from your country.”
“From my country he is not, no, not from my country!
The birds in the air flying, fly not so far away,
Except it were the swallow that wheels about all day.”

“Give alms to a poor pilgrim, who begs from land to land.”
But she has seen, in giving, the ring upon his hand,
And Fiorenza knows him for her first love, indeed.
He has hurried to the stables and mounted a gray steed.

“Oh, wish me well, my maidens, I go to my country!”
But the Moor up at the window is sobbing bitterly:
“Seven years have I maintained her, and she would none of me!”