I am a hunter, fleet and brisk,
The mountains are my home;
The green alp is my table
With many a scented bouquet.

  I follow the mountain goat for many days,
Often I take no rest by night;
And although I may toil and labour,
I find it to be no burden.

  When I am down in the valley, I suffer;
A piece of my heart is missing;
And when I see my beloved down there,
I am only half happy.

  My rifle burns in my hand,
My visage glows;
Before I know it, I have cocked the gun,
I cannot sit still.

  And if I am to breathe, I must go
Back up the mountain quickly
And gaze down from the steep rock-face,
With the morning wind storming about me.

  Then I inspect the mountaintops,
And make a note of the track and path
Where one can shoot down from above
When someday the enemy comes along.

  And if I think of it, my heart blazes,
I can hardly wait:
And other joy and other sorrow
Seems to me to be a dream.