Bring out the fiddle, rosin the bow
And oil the rusty larynx!
For see how the girl there wriggles and curtseys
And turns about and is embarrassed and is coy.
Hey, Greybeard, you too were once young
And had a sweetheart in your arms;
Now you are too stiff for dancing,
So fiddle and sing until you are warm.
 
And do not show me such a crabapple face,
Not every wine can be
As sweet as honey and as clear as light
And as quaffable as buttermilk.
Sour wine makes merry, allez-houp! cheers!
Well, though it may be a little harsh,
It has something so quick, something smooth and meek,
No one has yet burst from that.
 
Away with your night-watchman babbling!
I can do it better, you fool,
You saw about on your fiddle and scrape out something that offends our ear
And are as adenoidal as our pastor.
Hand over your fiddle! now, girls, listen up!
And hold onto your skirts nice and tightly,
The right foot, the left, now here and now there!
Now leap like a rabbit from its burrow.
 
Now? do you notice anything, old man? are you becoming inspired now?
That sashays about quite differently.
I am myself a musician, it's simply in my blood,
The fiddle does not do it on its own.
Hey! Lieselott, quickly fill up my tankard,
Hold it! not from the merry brew, child!
I am quite merry enough myself already; there under the table
Stands the pitcher, -- that brew flourished under the wind.