A little ship quietly travels
Its path along the current.
Those travelling on it are silent
For they do not know each other.

What is it that from beneath his pelts
The brown forester pulls out?
It is a horn that softly sounds:
The shore echoes its sounding.

From his walking stick
Another unscrews prong and possessions,
And mixes the tones of a flute
Into the droning of the horn.

The maiden who had sat so bashfully,
As if she were incapable of speech,
Now lifts her voice in song
To the sounds of the horn and the flute.

The rowers, too, bestir themselves
With rhythmic strokes.
The ship beneath them flies
Rocked by melody.

The shore is reached with a hard bump,
The passengers prepare to go their separate ways into the land:
When, brethren, shall we all be together again
Upon the same little ship?