Round about the graveyard
a rutted cart-track goes;
that way, weeping, once trod
a young widow, fair rose.

She wept, she lamented
over her husband’s death:
where last they had parted,
for he’d breathed his last breath.

From his white-painted court,
across the green meadow,
a feather in his hat,
rides a handsome fellow.

“Do not weep, nor complain,
young widow, fair widow,
nor hurt your eyes in vain,
here’s advice to follow.

Do not weep in sorrow,
since your husband has died,
pretty rose, young widow,
take me and be my bride.”

One day she was in tears,
next day no sobs were heard,
all gone were her sorrows
the day after—the third.

That day for the deceased,
well, she could not care less:
before a month elapsed,
she sewed her wedding dress.

Around the churchyard way
now joyfully they ride,
they’re arriving today,
the bridegroom and his bride.

It was their wedding day,
noisy and jollified;
the new husband embraced
in his arms the young bride.

It was their wedding day,
he held her close to him,
fine music they did play:
she just laughed all the time.

Laugh, dear bride, laugh away,
my dear, it suits you so,
he has deaf ears today,
the one lying below.

Embrace your dear lover,
you have nothing to fear:
firm’s the coffin’s cover—
he cannot turn, my dear!

Kiss them, kiss them, those lips
you wished for so badly;
the one you gave those drops
will not come back, sadly!

*

Time passes, passing by,
all’s change and change about:
what was not, now comes nigh,
what used to be is not.

Time passes, passing by,
just an hour, or a year;
though people one day die,
guilt will not disappear.

Since to rest he was laid,
we have seen three years pass;
on his burial mound
now flourishes fresh grass.

On the mound now grows grass,
young oak keeps watch above,
on the oak each day sits
a gentle wee white dove.

It sits there every day,
most plaintively to coo;
all those who hear it say
they’re broken-hearted too.

Not so broken-hearted
as a certain woman:
who tears hair from her head,
calling out, fear-stricken:

“Do not coo, do not call,
do not complain at all,
your singing so cruel
fair pierces my soul.

Do not coo, nor lament,
my head is whirling round,
or coo anyway, it
will fly off, I’ll be bound.”

Along flows the river,
waves rapidly progress;
and those waves uncover
fleetingly a white dress.

Here a leg comes floating,
see pale arms midst a wave,
it’s the woman, poor thing,
searching for her own grave.

They dragged her to the shore,
buried her secretly,
where the pathways of yore
criss-cross amid the rye.

No grave of any kind,
only a massive stone, 
for the girl was destined,
her body weighing down.

But no stone can bear down
with a weight quite the same
as the heavy burden
with which is cursed her name!