Already the peaks of the Alps
Are all sparkling silverly in ice,
In the valley, autumn is robbing
The green wreath of the trees of their foliage.

   Around the little village on the slope
The meadow remains green,
But the flowers upon the meadow
Are all already withered.

   Hark, what rings from the mountain
Like the full tolling of bells?
What sounds down to the valley
Like sweet bridal singing?

   That is the young herdswoman
Who, with her herd of cows,
Is wandering from the Alps
Down to her home.

   The prettiest of her cows
With the bright-sounding bell,
Adorned with a fresh wreath,
Leads the way like a bride.

   Round about her the whole herd
Leaps so joyfully,
Like faithful young companions
Who rejoice in the festival-day.

   The black steer, sedately
As is appropriate for such a gentleman,
Follows swaying like a fat abbot
Who proudly leads the bridal train.

   And before the first house the maiden
Gives three bright resounding cries,
So that it shrills through the little village,
Through the valley and far through the Alps.

   The mother and the maidens
Have quickly run up,
The herdswoman presses
Everyone's hand, warmly and faithfully:

  "Many greetings, lovely fresh ones,
From the green alpine heights!
How long, oh how long
It's been since we saw each other!

   "The whole long summer
I sat so utterly alone
With the herds and the little flowers,
With sunshine and moonlight!"

   She greets all the young lads
With a merry visage,
Only one, and that one the handsomest,
Him she just doesn't greet.

   He doesn't seem bothered by it
And accepts it with a smile!
He, too, has not seen the lovely one
For such a long time?

   He wears a green little hat
And there are alpine roses upon it. --
Truly, such alpine roses
Do not usually grow in the valley.