He rode through the streets of the city
Down from his hill on high
Over wynds and the steps and the cobbles
He rode to a woman's sigh
 
For she was his secret treasure
She was his shame and bliss
And a chain and a keep are nothing [bad word] to a woman's kiss
 
For hands of gold
Are always cold
But a woman's hands are warm
 
For hands of gold
Are always cold
But a woman's hands are warm.