O Lola, with your milk-white blouse,
White-skinned, with lips like cherries
Your laughing face looks from the window,

And the first one to kiss you is blessed!
Blood may be spilt on your doorstep,
But to die there is nothing to me.

If, dying I went up to heaven
And found you not there I would flee!


If, dying I went up to heaven
And found you not there I would flee!
Ah! ah! ah! ah!