The old king rode out into the woods,
What a hunting it is today!
The charger pants, the bugle sounds
The pack of hounds barks in the bushes.

And when the sun stood at midday,
There in the enclosure of beech trees
The king's rosy-cheeked daughter
Strayed from the path.

She rides gently; with her rides
The page with the blonde hair,
And were she not the child of the king,
They would make the most beautiful couple.

He gazes at her, his heart quakes,
The forest becomes ever more dense,
He blushes from cheek to forehead,
With burning cheeks he speaks:

"You lovely, lovely princess,
I can no longer keep it from you,
My young heart, it breaks for love,
My heart, it belongs to you."

"Oh if I could but a single time
Kiss you upon your red lips!
I would be the happiest man in the world,
Even if I had to die for doing it."

She speaks not yea, she speaks not nay,
She checks the horse's reins,
And as she swings herself from the saddle,
He holds the stirrup for her.

They walk into the deep woods,
There the bowers are so shady,
There the nightingale sings of love,
And the turtledoves coo.

There blooms the red, the wild rose
In the green darkness;
Upon the ground the fresh moss
Offers a resting-place for love.

They rest on the moss by the wild rose,
Their steeds they leave to grazing,
They no longer hear the nightingale
Nor the bugling of the hunters. -

You old king, do not look out for her!
The most beautiful of princesses
Has, in the page's embrace,
Forgotten you and the world.