The Spaniard dances every night in a damned hall.
The Saharet has reawakened in her noble profile.
And a connoisseur from Poznan, he sends a bouquet of red roses every day,
/>Because he has wild feelings, and when she laughs he whispers:
hm, Donna, Donna, Donna, Donna, Donna Clara,
Donna Clara! Oh, Donna Clara,
I saw you dancing, and your beauty made me mad.
I then saw you as a whole in a dream,
that was the measure of love made.
With every step and step your body bends exactly in the middle,
and wonderfully, dangerously, your feet, you sweetie, can be seen.
Oh, Donna Clara, I saw you dancing,
Oh, Donna Clara, you're beautiful!
He's already fifty years old, but he's completely bewitched by her,
and today his passion grows to the utmost limit.
He is a merchant, a simple one, but love makes him a poet,
and the music of its dances he writes a text, intoxicated with happiness:
hm, Donna, Donna....
But the connoisseur from Poznań soon escaped to his homeland,
because roses cost far too much ¤glich gives without wages.
But in the familiar family, after roast goose with lots of parsley,
his heart drops because suddenly the gramophone sings:
hm, Donna , Donna...

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