I
The old royal castle shimmers brightly
In the early glow of morning.
A squire mounts his steed,
He must ride as the king's messenger.
And as he rode out of the castle gate
And across the echoing bridge
He reined in the stride of the steed
And turned his head back.

What was fluttering there in the morning light,
From a tower's parapet?
It was not a soaring bird,
It was a cloth of linen.
With a shining halberd stood
The old watchman at the outer ward
And upon his bearded lips he 
Placed his finger significantly.

II
Hey, merry ride through the forest compound!
The birds flutter and sing,
And over the bushes and across the path
The spotted deer are leaping.
The forest water-spring foams and rushes,
The wind plays in the leaves;
The rider takes his haft-horn
And lets it sound out joyfully.

"Hello, hello! The forest is green,
And grows more beautiful with every new morning.
Leap up, my heart, and let joyfully bloom
That which is deeply hidden within you,
The king's eagle rises high
All the way up to the icy firns,
But secret love rises higher yet,
And exchanges caresses with the stars of heaven.

It seems to me as if I continually hear
Angels’ wings fluttering about me,
Not for the hoard of the Nibelungs
Would I exchange my happiness.
In a sweet hour I kissed
The young queen;
From her lips I drank
The blissful drink of love."

III
At that hour a proud hunter
Was prowling in the green oak forest,
Upon the curve of his helmet he wore
A golden serrated circlet.
He saw the young nobleman
And heard the rejoicing voice,
He grabbed his hunting spear ready for launching
And spurred his horse in wrath.

Stop your resounding singing,
Commend your soul to the Lord!
The king's sharp weapon penetrated
The throat of the singer.
He sank from his horse in death throes,
And arched his body, his slender body;
The flowers and the green clover
Drank his fervid heart's blood.

The king pulled his hunting spear
From the dead man’s wound,
He turned his black steed homeward
And spoke with mocking lips:
"Your fervid heart is still and cold,
The vultures and ravens,
The wolves and foxes in the wild woods
Shall bury you and your song."

IV
The dead man stared into the sunlight;
A robin came a-flying,
It completely covered 
The pale face with flowers.
The trees shook branch and twig,
As if they felt pity
And under a burden of leaves
They buried the poor man.

A little aspen sprouted up,
Shaded the mound,
A white bird sat upon it
And flourished its shimmering wings.
And from the bird's throat welled forth
A song of sweet sound,
From its bell-like voice 
The wide expanse of the forest echoed.

What did the bird sing again and again?
He sang of a lad who died
In the woods by treacherous murder
And who lies buried in the forest.
In a sweet hour he kissed
The young queen;
From her lips he drank
The blissful drink of love.

V
In the green expanse of the forest
Strode a minstrel with his lute,
He wished to rest under the aspen tree
In the green ferns.
The bird in the branches began 
To sing its sweet song of lament;
The minstrel held his breath,
The song became his own.

The singer departed from the oak forest,
And strode vigorously onward,
He carried the song out into the land
And sang it to the accompaniment of his lute strings.
Then in the meadowlands the men
Swinging their scythes hearkened,
The shepherds at the edge of the woods,
The coalman at the charcoal kiln.

He sang it to the farmers behind their ploughs,
To the fishermen upon the waves,
The wandering journeymen, sitting with
Full tankards, joined in the singing of it.
He sang his song to the young girls
Sitting by the linden tree of an evening,
He sang it under the arched gateway
To the listening menials of the castle.

VI
The king arose from his dinner
And walked to the arch of the window,
A resounding song came flying
Up to the royal hall:
In a sweet hour I kissed
The young queen;
From her lips I drank
The blissful drink of love."

And louder and brighter up toward the hall
Sounded the mighty tones.
The King grabbed the pommel of his sword,
And his veins swelled.
His eyes were shrouded in dark night,
Death painted him pallid,
The King died, his kingdom was no more. --
A song can never die.