... 

  Upon the marshland by Stavila,
Upon the fallow field, 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 upon 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 down into the water-spring
And the waters are growing red.
 ... 
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.

 ... 
“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
 ... 
It is the evil Venetian,
Who with his disreputable comrades
Drove away our herds,
Who kidnapped 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.
 ... 

 ... 
They dig a deep pit,
 ... 
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 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?

  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!"

 ...