What saddens your soul, oh Marko,
So that your eyes gaze forth so gloweringly?
What burdens your heart, so that your brow
Is so furrowed and your cheek so paled?
Did hail ruin your crops?
Do you believe that I have grown inconstant in my love?
Or does a vampire suck the blood 
From your heart in the midnight hour? --

  "If hail had ruined my crops,
Next year would likely bring a doubled harvest;
If you had grown inconstant in your love,
New times might well bring me new love, too.
But a vampire does suck at my heart,
Night and morning, long, long days
Since Stavila lies in rubble,
Since there are foreign ships at our coasts,
Since foreigners roam in our mountains."

  Evil are they who burned Stavila,
Evil the wild guests in our land;
More evil is the vampire in your heart,
For he has likely robbed me of your love.
Otherwise you would come, as usual, to my window,
You would never leave me to wait for you in vain,
Solitary in the quiet nights
Until morning dawns in the distance. --

  "If I did not have to pass Stavila,
When at night I come to you, beloved,
You would not wait for me in vain;
If I did not have to pass the coast
When I part from you in the morning,
You should not doubt my love 
But -- the vampire in my heart
Never lets me complete the journey to you,
Holds me as if spellbound by those ruins,
By Stavila's rubble and heaps of ashes!" --

  Marko came to the house of his beloved, --
It was morning, one early morning --
He knocked quietly upon her little window.
The maiden came forth upon the threshold,
Saw her beloved, her so-long missed beloved,
Happily rejoicing, she sank upon his breast.

  "Beloved, fill a goblet of red wine for me, 
Hand it to me yourself,
So that I may drink once more from your hands,
Which have so often faithfully cared for me;
So that I may once more kiss your warm lips,
Which so often refreshed me sweetly."

  The maiden hastens to her father's cellar,
Quickly she brings a goblet of red wine,
Amiably, she passes it to her beloved.
Marko takes the full, foaming goblet,
Lifts it high: "Oh, noble drink of heroes!"
He winds his arms about the slender maiden,
Kisses her: "And oh sweet draught of love!"

  But suddenly, pale and aghast, the maiden 
Twists herself free from her beloved's arms.
Marko, Marko, tell me what has happened?
Your coat is moist with nighttime dew,
Your garments are wet with fresh blood,
Your bayonet, your hand are stained with blood,
And -- oh God -- from out of your wounded bosom
Warm blood wells! -- Did you struggle
With the shepherds over a horse in the forest?
Did you fight with robbers along the road?
Or did you, in the dark chasms 
Of the mountains, slay a wolf?

  Then with proud spirit, Marko responds:
"I struggled for a noble steed,
But not with the shepherds in the forest;
I battled with a brazen robber,
But not with one who lurks along the road;
A killed a vicious wolf,
But not one that lives in chasms:
Our free right is a noble steed!
Robbers are the foreigners who defile it!
Wolves are those who with bloody greed
Fatten themselves upon our barns and pens!" --

  Thus spake Marko. And he raises the goblet,
Drinks the full fire of the hero's drink:
"This, oh maiden, is my last drink!"
And he winds his arms around the maiden,
Imbibing the flame of love from her lips:
"This, oh maiden, is our last kiss!
Hasten now and let the bells be rung,
Let a grave be dug for me beside Stavila,
Let them sing old songs of heroes
When they lower me into my grave!
Plant roses over my heart,
Grapevines in a circle round my burial mound,
And at my head an oak tree;
For as I -- in the arms of true love
With the goblet full of noble wine
For the good righteousness, for holy freedom --
Few men die such a blessed death!"

  Upon the marshland by Stavila,
Upon the open country, where the ashes
Lie strewn about by the wind --
Ashes of Stavila's cottages --
Stands an oak tree, old and gigantic,
Flows a clear water-spring in the meadow.
Overnight the leaves have
Wilted and fallen from the oak tree,
Overnight the waters 
Of the spring have grown red.

  By the oak tree, by the water-spring
A corpse is lying upon his back.
A bullet hit his throat
And his heart was penetrated by a bayonet.
For three long, long days he has been 
Lying there in the sand of the water-spring,
Lying there in the hot, burning sun
And in the cool dew of the night.

  His eyes are not shut, they seem
Still to be glimmering maliciously.
They gaze up toward the oak tree,
And the green foliage is wilting.
His wounds are not closed,
Red blood is still flowing from them,
Flowing everywhere into the water-spring
And the waters are growing red.
The hair on his head has grown long
And his fingernails have grown.
Burrowing into the ground,
His right hand has buried a dagger.
Thus for three long days he has been 
Lying there in the sand of the water-spring,
Lying there in the hot, burning sun
And in the cool dew of the night.

  The shepherds of the field found him
Upon the fourth day,
They hastened into the dark forests,
Hastened into the sombre chasms:
“Ye who fled into the forests,
Ye who fled into the mountains,
When the torches of the Venetians 
Fell upon Stavila's rooftops,
Hasten hither! -- Beside yonder oak,
By the water-spring near Stavila,
You may look upon a corpse!
It is the captain of the Venetians
Whose boats at the coasts of our sea
Harkened for plunder!
It is the evil Venetian,
Who with his disreputable comrades
Drove away our herds,
Who raped our daughters,
Who enslaved our sons,
Who burned our cottages!
Hasten hither! -- In the hot sand
He is lying in his blood,
Lying alone, and his hordes of comrades
Fled far across the sea!"

  Thus called the throng of shepherds
Into the forests, into the chasms.
Those who heard it, those who came,
Now stand in a circle around
The corpse at the water-spring.
Everyone knows him, the hated one,
Everyone rejoices in his fall,
Every bosom breathes more freely.

  And thus they stand in a circle,
They dig a deep pit,
Quite six yards deep,
And in it they bury the corpse
Of the hated Venetian.
And, oh wonder! once more the wilted foliage
Of the oak grows green and shady,
As refreshing as in former days
Flows the water-spring, clearly and purely!

  But one is missing in the circle,
No eye shall ever see him again!
Full, red roses shall soon
Blossom from out of his faithful heart
At which no vampire gnaws any longer;
Soon slender grapevines shall grow 
Greenly about his quiet retreat,
The peace of which nothing disturbs any longer;
A proud, tall oak shall soon
Shade his grave, over which
A free land stretches.

  And another one is missing in the circle,
She would so gladly be rejoicing with you all!
But she must sit in solitude
In her quiet, dark chamber.
Her beautiful black eyes
Weep over her beloved,
Her beautiful white hands
Weave a widow's veil.