The fiddles are playing;
into the round dance there steps
a strange guest.
No one knows this gaunt one,
gallantly from the crowd
he grasps the bride herself.

He lifts her swinging around
the dance floor.
The young woman remarks:
"Your legs are rattling ...
And your joints are creaking,
as we move to the dance!"

The shy one behind her fan,
the reveler in his cups,
the poet so gentle.
Must likewise join in the dance,
as laurel leaves from the wreath
fly off in the wind.

So the round dance whirls on
through the hall out into the silence
of the splendid night;
the sounds fade away,
the cock already crows,
as all whirls away in a cloud of dust.

So, as it has always been
and as it still is today,
when you hear the bright
sounds of the round dance,
who knows, for whom it plays,
be on guard, friend!