Two coffins stand alone
In the keep of the old cathedral,
King Ottmar lies in the one,
In the other the singer rests.

The king once sat in might
High upon the throne of his ancestors,
The sword lies in his right hand
And upon his head the crown.

But beside the proud monarch,
There lies the modest singer,
In his hands one can still see
The noble harp.

The castles round about are crumbling,
A battle-cry resounds through the land,
The sword, it never moves
 ...  in the hand of the king.

Blossoms and mild breezes
Waft along the valley -
The singer's harp rings out
In eternal song.