A pale maiden waits
Alone through the day and the dark night
For her beloved beside the pathway,
    Watcher by the pathway! Watcher by the pathway!

She said: And if I were to put down roots here
And if I had to wait until the day of judgement,
I shall wait for him beside the pathway,
    Watcher by the pathway! Watcher by the pathway!

The wild lad has forgotten her,
And where she waited, she found her grave,
A little flower sprouts beside the pathway,
    Watcher by the pathway! Watcher by the pathway!

The summer comes and the summer goes,
The autumn wind blows over the heath,
The little flower waits beside the pathway,
    Watcher by the pathway! Watcher by the pathway!

With storm-winds and rain
April departed;
The storms die down,
The winds are quiet.
A colourful arc
Glows in the sky;
May has arrived,
The hawthorn bush blooms.

In the bush by the water-spring
Madame Nightingale is singing;
A tanned lad
Embraces his maiden.
Their blood surges in waves,
They kiss until they are weary.
May has arrived,
The hawthorn bush blooms.

The northwind chases
The leaves of the forest's trees,
In the stormy weather
There is one who sits and laments:
Betrayed, deceived!
The ancient song -- -- --
May has flown away,
The blooming of the hawthorn has ended.

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.

The maiden comes home from the May dance,
She has fatigued herself with leaping about.
Her mother asks, "Where is the wreath
That I wound into your hair for you?"

"As I was walking through the fields
The wind came along;
Roughly it tore the myrtles 
And the rosemary from my hair."

Her mother makes a serious face,
Furrowing her brow:
"Girl, don't you have two hands
With which to keep a hold of your wreath?"

"Just then I needed both my hands
In order to embrace my Friedel
As we were kissing each other to our hearts' content. --
Could I have let go of him?"