The lamps sparkle in the king's palace,
Flutes and violins ring out;
The king's beautiful daughter
Is dancing her wedding dance in the palace.

She is wearing the wreath of myrtles in her hair,
But she goes about mute and constrained;
Upon her breast she wears a blooming rose,
But her cheeks, they are so pale.

She is dancing with a foreign prince,
He wears royal purple and silk;
But more handsome, a thousand times more handsome was
The lad in page's attire.

At the golden table twelve maidens stand
To serve the sparkling wine;
Twelve pages circle around the bridal pair
With flaming torches and wreaths.

All of a sudden the torches flicker out,
All of a sudden the violins are mute;
The old king starts from his chair:
"Tell me, what is the meaning of this silence?"

"Lord King, do not enflame in rage,
We cannot blow [our horns] or bow [our violins];
The merman is playing the harp before your palace,
We must give way to the merman."

And hark, up from the sea there wafts
A sweet and sorrowful reverberation,
It creeps so gently through the twilit night
Into the festive halls [of the castle].

It creeps so gently into the ear of the bride;
It seems to her, as if from the depths,
As if from the depths with all-encompassing power
Her dearest lover were calling her.

Her eyes fill, she knows not why,
She cannot help dissolving in tears;
From out of her curls the myrtle wreath
Falls wilted at her feet.

The king shudders in his very marrow,
He flees in horror from the sound;
The foreign prince hastens
To his horses in the stable.

In the festive hall lies the pale bride,
Her heart has burst;
The morning light gloomily illumines the windows,
The echoes of the merman's harp have faded away.