Youth.
Away, thou swarthy witch! Go forth
From out my house, I tell thee!
Or else I needs must, in my wrath,
Expel thee!
What's this thou singest so falsely, forsooth,
Of love and a maiden's silent truth?
Who'll trust to such a story!
 
Gipsy.
I sing of a maid's repentant fears,
And long and bitter yearning;
Her levity's chang'd to truth and tears
All-burning.
She dreads no more the threats of her mother,
She dreads far less the blows of her brother,
Than the dearly lov'd-one's hatred.
 
Youth.
Of selfishness sing and treacherous lies,
Of murder and thievish plunder!
Such actions false will cause no surprise,
Or wonder.
When they share their booty, both clothes and purse, -
As bad as you gipsies, and even worse,
Such tales find ready credence.
 
Gipsy.
'Alas, alas! oh what have I done?
Can listening aught avail me?
I hear him toward my room hasten on,
To hail me.
My heart beat high, to myself I said:
'O would that thou had never betray'd
That night of love to thy mother!' '
 
Youth.
Alas! I foolishly ventur'd there,
For the cheating silence misled me;
Ah, sweetest! let me to thee repair, -
Nor dread me!
When suddenly rose a fearful din,
Her mad relations came pouring in.
My blood still boils in my body!
 
Gipsy.
'Oh when will return an hour like this?
I pine in silent sadness;
I've thrown away my only true bliss
With madness.
Alas, poor maid! O pity my youth!
My brother was then full cruel in truth
To treat the lov'd one so basely!'
 
The Poet.
The swarthy woman then went inside,
To the spring in the courtyard yonder;
Her eyes from their stain she purified,
And, - wonder! -
Her face and eyes were radiant and bright,
And the maid of the mill was disclos'd to the sight
Of the startled and angry stripling!
 
The Maid of the Mill.
Thou sweetest, fairest, dearly-lov'd life!
Before thine anger I cower;
But blows I dread not, nor sharp-edg'd knife, -
This hour
Of sorrow and love to thee I'll sing,
And myself before thy feet I'll fling,
And either live or die there!
 
Youth.
Affection, say, why buried so deep
In my heart hast thou lain hidden?
By whom hast thou now to awake from thy sleep
Been bidden?
Ah love, that thou art immortal I see!
Nor knavish cunning nor treachery
Can destroy thy life so godlike.
 
The Maid of the Mill.
If still, with as fond and heartfelt love,
As thou once didst swear, I'm cherish'd,
Then nought of the rapture we us'd to prove
Is perish'd.
So take the woman so dear to thy breast!
In her young and innocent charms be blest,
For all are thine from henceforward!

Both.
Now, sun, sink to rest! Now, sun, arise!
Ye stars, be now shining, now darkling!
A star of love now gleams in the skies,
All-sparkling!
As long as the fountain may spring and run,
So long will we two be blended in one,
Upon each other's bosoms!