Upon the desolate, bare heath
The wind blew so loudly;
There in great suffering 
Walks poor Tom with his child.

The mother lay in her grave,
The hut was burned [to the ground],
Now, leaning upon a beggar's staff,
Poor Tom walks through the whole land. 

The wind blows upon the heath,
Dissipating the light of the moon;
But Tom in his sorrow
Hears nothing of the storm.

He sits upon a stone;
His child, she is so quiet,
In his sorrow he weeps
Many a hot tear.

There is a burning in his eyes;
He cries: "My child, my child!
My eyes are burning!
Alas, daughter, I am blind!"

In the greatest fear, 
The child clings to him;
"Alas, I am blind!" laments
The poor beggar,

He pulls himself up,
Gives his hand to his child;
“Ah, dear daughter, go,
Lead me through city and country!"

She leads her blind father
And sings before every house:
"Ah, pass a small gift
Out to my father!"

Then she sits upon the doorstep
And shares the dry bread;
That is why her eye is so bright,
That is why her cheeks are so red.

Now the old father, blind, lays
His dry, withered hands
Upon her head: "May God provide!
May God bless you, my child."