A little village lies in the middle of the forest,
Covered over with sunshine,
And in front of the last house on the acclivity
An ancient mother sits.
     She lets the thread slip
     And lets the spinning wheel be a spinning wheel
     And thinks of the olden times
     And nods and falls asleep.

The midday silence creeps secretly
Through the shimmering green region.
Everything sleeps, even thrush and cricket
And the tired steer in front of the plough.
     There suddenly something comes
     A-sparkling along the forest
     And flying before it
     Is the sound of drums and pipes.

And, breaking into the song about old Blücher,
The villagers rejoice: They are here!
And the girls wave their kerchiefs,
And the lads cry: "Hurrah!"
     May God protect the golden fields,
     And the whole wide world as well;
     The Emperor's young soldiers
     Are once more marching into the green field!

Look, already they are turning past the acclivity
Where the last of the houses laughs,
The first ones are already disappearing into the forest
And the little old mother has wakened.
     Rapt in deep pondering,
     Her heart grows so heavy,
     And her tears flow:
     "He was one like that, too!"