Fly, little boat, through the night,
The splendour of the stars is already beginning to sparkle,
From a golden house the moon 
Peers forth into the quiet water.
Far away, the glow of a little light begins to [twinkle]1
From my beloved’s window.
Fly, little boat, through the night,
For Rose of València is keeping watch.

The birds have long gone to rest,
The starlight keeps watch over them,
The moon is already rimming the distant foam
Of the waves with a pale edge.
Everything is sleeping, only she alone
Still abides in her silent chamber.
Fly, little boat, through the night,
For Rose of València is keeping watch.

Even the colourful host of the flowers
Has closed its bright and clear eyes,
Dreaming of eternal springtime splendour,
Where the sun smiles more beautifully.
Everything [rests]2, only my beloved gazes
Out of her window quietly and cosily.
Fly, little boat, through the night,
For Rose of València is keeping watch.

Soon she closes her clear eyes,
Like the colourful host of flowers,
Dreams of the bliss of love,
Dreams of the pain and woe of love.
Already the glow of the light 
In my beloved's window is extinguished.
Fly, little boat, through the night,
Until Rose of València awakens.

  In the quiet night the sultaness keeps watch,
The odalisques are dreaming.
She is caught in the flaming might of yearning:
Where might my beloved be tarrying?
The sycamores whisper:
  He is lost! lost!

  The air is awash with sweet perfumes,
The flowers are caressing and kissing.
Love entices, love calls,
She cannot greet or kiss him.
[The sycamores whisper:
  He is lost! lost!]1

  Love sings, love [resounds
In the flaming swarm of the stars]2.
Her bosom heaves, her heart leaps . . . 
Yearned-for one, where in the distance are you being kept [from me]? 
The sycamores whisper:
  He is lost! lost!

  What is rustling, hark! what sound is echoing?
What are the ravens of the sea cawing?
Beside a cedar [bordering Mount]5 Lebanon,
There your beloved lies buried!
The sycamores whisper!
  He is lost! lost!

The beautiful Spain is in the remote South,
Spain is my home country,
Where the chestnuts give you shade
At the banks of the river Ebro,
Where the almond blossoms are red,
Where there are sweet grapes
And where the roses are more beautiful
And where the moonlight is brighter.

Sadly, I have been wandering with the lute 
For a long time from house to house,
But not a single bright and friendly eye
Greeted me from these houses.
Tightly, they give me presents,
Moaning people ask me to leave;
Ach nobody understands 
The poor dark-skinned boy.

[ ... ]

When, recently at the Thanksgiving,
Songs were performed in a big circle,
I played the best song
Of my Lieder.
But, even though the couples were dancing
In the golden evening sun,
Hot tears ran down
My dark cheeks.

Ach, during the dance
I thought of my home country,
Where every chest breathes freely
In the filmy moon shine.
Where every foot moves freely
Accompanied by the zither,
And where the young man dances
The Fandango with the beautiful woman.

No! I cannot stand the
Longing beats of heart any longer;
I want to efface any desire,
Please let me be happy in my home!
Let me go down South to Spain!
To the country full of sunshine!
I must be buried 
Under the shady chestnut trees!