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"Stop, stay!", replies she, "my lad so lofty,
My father old said, I'll remind:
Nightingale's grace is in man's voice,
But foxiness in his heart.
More of your cant I am afraid,
Than trust I the fervor of thine;
Maybe thy boon I would embrace,
But would you be a true love of mine?
So kneeled down the lad, took handful of gravel,
And summoned the forces infernal,
Upon the holy moonlight he swore,
But will he to oath his be faitful?
"Be faithful, oh hunter, that's my advice,
For whosever the oath sacred breaks,
Oh, wellaway to him while he lives,
And wellaway when he’s dead!”
So spake, no more the maiden abides,
She put her wreath on her head,
And, from afar the hunter she’s blessing,
To fields green comes she away.
In vain is hunter following her,
Can't catch her swiftly a-running,
As gentle aflatus she faded away,
And all'lone stayed he, thither standing.
All'lone stayed he, wild path a-returning,
The quicksand and slush is a-sagging,
Silence around, only under his feet
A withered twig is a-rustling.
At the water he's walking, with steps uncertain,
With faraway look he is ogling,
Swiftly, in thickset wood wind has blown,
And waters are seething and ruffling.
