Wat stæhnt der Abends rut ut Moor?
Dat is de Wind in Reth un Rohr.
Och ne, dat is keen Reth un Wind,
Dar stæhnt en Fru, dar weent en Kind!

What’s moaning on the moor at night?
It’s rustling reeds, the wind in flight.
Oh, no, it’s no reeds, no wind that sighs
But a woman’s moans, an infant’s cries!

Dat wimmert Abends krank un swach,
Dat snuckert lud de ganze Nacht,
Dat flücht sik vær de Morgensünn
As Newel in de deepsten Grünn’.

There’s whimpering around twilight
And noisy sobs throughout the night.
It flees at sunrise like a veil
Of mist descending in a dale.

Doch wenn de Scheper Middags slöppt,
So hört he, wa dat lisen röppt,
So deep, so dump, so swack un leeg,
As gung der nerrn en Krankenweeg.

But when the shepherd naps by day
He hears soft cries not far away
So deeply, weakly through the still
As if from someone deadly ill.

Dat is en Seel, de hett keen Rau,
De flücht sik as de Morgendau,
Dat is en Seel, de hett keen Fred,
De singt un singt en Wegenleed.

A restless soul soon out of sight,
It fades like dew come morning light,
A soul that finds no peace, that sighs
And sings and sings its lullabies.

Un is dat Moor alleen un kahl,
Un jagt de Blæd vunt Holt hendal,
Denn flüggt se mit in Strom un Larm,
En bleke Diern, er Kind in Arm.

When life deserts the bare, bleak fen
And woods shed all their leaves again
She, too, leaves with the autumn wild—
A pale lass, in her arms her child.

Op Dubenheid dar is en Moor,
Dar stat de Wicheln kahl un sor.
In Dubenheid dar is en Lunk,
Doch schriggt der nu ni Pock noch Unk.

At Dove Heath there is swampy ground
With bare, dead willows all around.
At Dove Heath there’s a slough, a bog,
Yet you hear neither toad nor frog.

Dat witte Wullgras steit der rund,
Dar is en Dæpel sünner Grund,
Dat Water sipert grön un trag’
Un kumt bi Braken eerst to Dag’.

White cotton grass grows all around
A bottomless pond in dipping ground
Where water seeps up, oozing and green,
That just in bareness can be seen.

Dat is de Kul, dar smitt se’t rin,
Dat is de Platz, dar mutt se hin,
Dar steit un ritt se sik de Haar
Un is verswunn’ bet tokum Jahr.

That’s where she repeats tossing her child,
The place that beckons her back through the wild,
Where she’ll stand, tear her hair, then disappear,
Not to return before next year.

De Wachtel röppt, de Harst de kumt,
De Kukuk is al lang verstummt –
Nu hör! wa stæhn dat lud un swar!
Bald ward dat still bet tokum Jahr.

When autumn comes you hear quails calling.
Cuckoo’s long gone when leaves are falling.
Listen! Those loud moans! Can’t you hear?
Soon they will stop until next year.