Will you not watch the little lamb? -
 the little lamb is so innocent and tender,
 feeding on the blossoming grasses,
 playing by the edge of the brook.
 "Mother, mother, let me go,
 to hunt in the mountain heights!"

 Will you not summon the herd
 with the horn's cheerful notes?
 Sweetly do the bells toll
 in the wood's hearty song.
 "Mother, mother, let me go,
 to wander on the wild heights!"

 Will you not tend the little flowers,
 standing with such friendliness in their beds?
 Out there welcomes no such garden;
 it is wild on the wild heights!
 "Leave the little flowers - let them bloom!
 Mother, mother, let me leave!"

 And the boy left to hunt,
 driven and yanked forward,
 restless with blind daring,
 to the mountain's dark place:
 ahead of him with the speed of wind
 flees the trembling gazelle.

 On the cliff's naked ribs
 she climbs with an easy leap,
 through the gaps of split rocks
 does her daring spring take her,
 but behind her, audacious,
 he follows with his deadly bow.

 Now, to the precipitous teeth
 does she cling, on the highest ridge,
 where the cliffs drop sheer below
  and the path disappears.
  Beneath her the steep drop;
  behind her the approaching foe.

 With a mute expression of despair
 she entreats the cruel man,
 but she pleads in vain, for he is about to fire:
 he is already aiming his bow.
 Suddenly from a rocky cleft
 steps the Spirit of the Mountain.

 And with his divine hands
 he protects the tormented creature.
 "Must you send death and anguish,"
 he calls, "Even up here to me?
 The earth has room for all -
 why do you persecute my herd?"