Min Modersprak, wa klingst du schön!
Wa büst du mi vertrut!
Weer ok min Hart as Stahl un Steen,
du drevst den Stolt herut.

My native tongue, how sweet you sound!
I’m so at home with you!
And if my heart were steel and stone,
You’d purge it of its pride.

Du bögst min stiwe Nack so licht
as Moder mit ern Arm,
du fichelst mi umt Angesicht –
un still is alle Larm.

Your light touch bends my rigid neck
As Mother’s arm once did.
Your gentle breath about my face
Silences all noise.

Ik föhl mi as en lüttjet Kind,
de ganze Welt is weg.
Du pust mi as en Værjahrswind
de kranke Boss torecht.

I feel just like a tiny child;
The world around is gone.
Just like a spring breeze do you blow
Soundness into my breast.

Min Obbe folt mi noch de Hann’
un seggt to mi: “Nu be!”
Un “Vaderunser” fang ik an,
as ik wul fröher de.

As he did then, Gramps folds my hands
And says to me, “Now pray!”
And “Our Father ...” I begin
As I used to do then,

Un föhl so deep: dat ward verstan,
so sprickt dat Hart sik ut.
Un Rau vunn Himmel weiht mi an,
un allns is wedder gut!

And deeply feel it will be heard;
Thus has the heart its say.
And Heaven’s peace envelops me,
And all is well again!

Min Modersprak, so slicht un recht,
du ole frame Red!
Wenn blot en Mund “min Vader” seggt,
so klingt mi’t as en Bed.

My native tongue, so plain and just,
You ancient, virtuous speech!
“My father” may one’s mouth just say;
It sounds like prayer to me.

So herrli klingt mi keen Musik
un singt keen Nachdigal;
mi lopt je glik in Ogenblick
de hellen Thran hendal.

No music sounds as sweet to me,
Nor does a nightingale.
At any moment sparkling tears
Might trickle down my cheeks.