The air of March was cool, my blood was heated.
The wind came flying along and took my hat.

It was blown over the garden fence.
There our neighbour's Margareth found it.

She blew the dirt off its brim
And tucked a violet under the hatband,

Without a word, she tossed it over to me.
When I wanted to thank her, she was already gone.

Daily now I am forced to stand at the garden fence,
Waiting for the wind, but the wind does not blow.

I see Gretchen, too, through the pickets,
But she never even turns her blonde head [my way].

If the wind will not help me, I shall myself
Throw my hat over to her and climb over after it!

Pious pilgrims travel to Rome,
Sandals upon their feet; 
In the cathedral of St. Peter's
They wish to atone for their sins.

Across the sea to the holy grave
Others journey with repenting;
I with my walking staff,
I know whither I wander.

Others may wear a cockle hat
And carry the flag of the church,
And I do not need to bother
The pope in the Vatican.

For I know where to find
A miraculous image.
When it gazes upon me with angelic mildness
All my sufferings vanish.

I have already received much
From its trove of mercy.
The half of my sins it has
Lovingly taken upon itself.

I would only too gladly
Figure out one thing yet:
If it also provides salvation to others,
Or to me alone.

When in the crimson light
The wild grapevines shine
And along the brook the willow stands hoary with frost;
When the autumn crocus blooms,
When the thrush migrates,
And whistles its farewell song from the blackthorn,

When in forest and field
The bloodhound barks loudly
And the slender deer must bleed to death,
When the dormouse
Into its winter-house
Drags the very last beechnut:

Then farewell, you fields,
Mountains , pine forests,
Pastor, forester, sheriff, miller, baker!
I have had enough of wandering,
I head back to the city
Where the Roland-statue stands at the corner by the Town Hall.

Blonde little Gretel,
Leave off your grieving!
With the swallows I shall come back here.
If I should die 'ere then,
Don't cry so much,
Because it would be a pity to spoil your eyes.

The zither entices, the violin rings out,
Hurray, there's a dance in the town!
Michel swings his Lise about,
Grete is swung about by Hans.
 To twirl a girl about quickly
 Is a very good thing.
 I do not like to stand about doing nothing
 And I leap into the ring.

Katherine, the daughter of the rich sheriff
Is high-spirited and jaunty;
The rotund daughter of the miller
Is an utter darling.
 But of all the maids
 Who are up for grabs
 The one that pleases me most
 Is the dark-skinned child of the fiddler.

Take, old man, this coin of silver
And play your most beautiful piece;
Give me your hand, gypsy girl,
All you others, step back!
 Now rejoice, you violins,
 You pipes sound and ring out!
 Think maiden, [the whole world
 Belongs to the two of us.]1

Do not look so anxious,
Open your eyes brightly!
As you are a nomad, so am I
A wandering chap.
 For my and your happiness
 [The month of] May created roses,
 And I and you, we two,
 Are better than our reputation.