We've had that German Rhine of yours -
drops of it have stayed in our glasses.
Does a verse that you sing as you go
efface the haughty trace
that our horses' feet marked in your blood?

We've had that German Rhine of yours.
Its breast bears an open wound
from the day when Condé triumphantly
tore its green raiment.
Where the father passed, so surely will the child.

 ... 

We've had that German Rhine of yours.
Though may forget your history,
your young women, surely,
have remembered us better:
they served us some of your white wine.

If it is yours, your German Rhine,
then go wash your livery in it;
but don't speak of it so proudly.
How many of you, when it came to the kill,
were crows biting the dying eagle?

May it flow in peace, your German Rhine
and reflect your gothic cathedrals
modestly in its water.
But be very scared that your drinking songs
may wake the dead from their bloody repose.