The birdlet has a happy lot,
When in the green bosom of the forest,
Still hidden in the soft nest,
It blissfully stretches its little wings,
When, before it can itself yet flutter,
From the reeds and firs its dear mother
Brings it its little worm,
And sings it to sleep with a song.

The birdlet has a happy lot,
When, trusting in God, without anxiety,
It boldly tries out its wings for the first time
In the bright sunbeam of spring,
[When it] begins to sing as in a dream,
And teasingly hops from tree to tree,
When it lifts itself ever higher
And hovers in the blue breezes.

The birdlet has a happy lot,
All it thinks about is new songs;
Oh listen, how from its breast, rejoicingly,
It pours forth all the bliss and joy
That awoke in its young heart
In the green, magical night,
And how it sings of the first sweet anguish,
In the bush, lamenting to the moonbeam.

The birdlet has a happy lot,
When soon it shall gather leaves and straws
And moss for its own nest,
[When it] shall find rest after all the yearning;
Its song shall sound yet more happily
In the green forest, early and late,
And other merry birds as well
Shall serenade it from the bushes.

The birdlet has a happy lot:
Wherever it wishes to go, it flies without care;
Whoosh, it takes off into the winds
With its song from place to place,
There it flies across the wild river,
And there it circles about the slender [spire of the] cathedral:
You happy birdlet! what I ask of you:
Stop, stop and take me with you!