And tomorrow is the feast of St. Martin,
Goodwife loves her husband;
So she kneads puddings for him
And bakes them in a pan.

As both are now lying in bed,
a wild wind blows from the west;
and Goodman says to the good wife:
You, go bolt the door.

I have barely recovered and am only
half warmed up, how can I rest;
And if it rattled for a hundred years,
I would not bolt it.

So they made a wager
and spoke it softly in each other's ear;
whoever would say the tiniest first word
would have to bolt the door.

Two wanderers come by around midnight
and know not where they stand,
the lamp is out, the stove burned down,
nothing can be heard or seen.

What kind of bewitched place is this?
We are losing patience here!
But they didn't hear a single word,
which was the fault of the door.

They ate the white pudding,
the black one too, quite comfortably.
And Goodwife talks to herself a lot,
but not a syllable out loud.

This one then says to that one:
How parched is my throat!
The cupboard is ajar and smells of spirits,
that's where it should be found.

I'm getting a little bottle of brandy;
doesn't that come in handy!
I'll bring it to you, and you to me,
and soon we'll be revived.

But Goodman jumped up wildly
and went at them with threats:
I shall be paid with good money
by those who waste my brandy!

And Goodwife also jumped up joyfully,
three hops, as if she were rich:
You, Goodman, spoke the first word
now quick and bolt the door!