My young beloved set off into the forest
In a sparkling huntsman's outfit.
How dashing you looked, my dearest darling,
In your gleaming green garb!

The hunters are blowing their horn-call.

And when they had cornered the boar, the wild one,
My darling was the first of them all, woe!
Struck by the bloody tooth of the wild creative,
There he lies, dead.

The hunters are blowing their horn-call.

Ye huntsmen, what lucky prize are you 
Bringing back to us from the dark forest?
We come bearing noble game,
Today we are bringing back your darling.

The hunters are blowing their horn-call.

I know of a cool grave in the forest,
There I sit from the early glow of morning
Until the dark cold night
And weep, and weep, and weep.

And when, in the sad blowing of the autumn wind,
The withered leaves move,
Then you are to lay the poor, forsaken bride
At her beloved's side.