Greenly among bush and herb
  Stands the roof of my hut.
  The sound of the zither, the homely sound,
  Never sleeps there,
  As it wishes it plays
  Over hill and dale,
  With the undulating of the breezes,
  With the current of the water springs.
 
Often, oh sweet meeting!
  It encounters the nightingale
  In the nearby
  Grove at the waterfall.
  Then there is a sounding
  Of joyful jests of love,
  Ever higher-pitched struggles,
  Every sweeter pain.
 
Often, no matter how far from people
  My dwelling-place may be,
  A jolly chiming comes
  Over to us to accompany our play.
  From the herds it sounds,
  From the Alps there,
  And, curious, it penetrates
  All the way to this place.
 
It is the dear playmate
  Of the sound of my zither,
  It speaks delicately and brightly
  For many an hour.
  Of the stories
  Unfolding down on the meadow
  It wishes to tell many things,
  Only half discernable.
 
Sounds of the zither, accompany
  That which the trifler spoke,
  But into his distances
  Never follow him.
  Often when from the forests
  He slipped down the mountain,
  He spoke:  "Come along
  To the fields of my homeland.”
 
Do not let yourself be beguiled,
  You, my chosen one,
  When he tells pretty lies
  From the world outside!
  For all your days remain
  Devoutly with me alone;
  If he has something to say,
  Likely he will enter.