A fellow has foisted himself upon me,
He’s not to be gotten rid of,
With every step I take he clusters round me
With mocking gestures.
Always he has but one thing in mind for me,
He is also not a woman hater,
But if my way leads over a narrow bridge,
He falls into the water without a sound.

He is a sleek fellow
In his dark grey clothing,
Light-footed and quick-witted,
And he does nothing to harm me.
He hovers about me
And sits down with me me,
When I greet him, he thanks me mutely,
If I threaten him, he reciprocates.

In the light of the full moon and in the sunshine
He comes wherever I show myself,
But he must be a musician,
Often I see his violin.
He also has the true features of a musician,
The happy, supple [features].
He always lifts the jug at the same time I do
And beckons the publican with me.

He seems to be on good terms with the publican,
Who must keep a tally in chalk,
For I have seen him drinking,
But I’ve never seen him pay.
That is, however, not the worst
For which I must chide him,
If I only knew something else good
Of the grey scoundrel.