De Borrn bewegt sik op un dal,
As gingst du langs en böken Bahl,
Dat Water schülpert inne Graff,
De Grasnarv bewert op un af;
Dat geit hendal, dat geit tohöch
So lisen as en Kinnerweeg.

The ground keeps moving up and down.
It’s like walking on a beech-wood board.
The water’s sloshing in the ditch.
The turf keeps quaking up and off.
Now it goes down, now it goes up
As gently as a baby’s cradle.

Dat Moor is brun, de Heid is brun,
Dat Wullgras schint so witt as Dun,
So week as Sid, so rein as Snee:
Den Hadbar reckt dat bet ant Knee.

The bog is brown. The heather’s brown.
Cotton grass gleams as white as down,
As soft as silk, as pure as snow.
It goes the stork up to its knees.

Hier hüppt de Pock int Reth hentlank,
Un singt uns Abends sin Gesank;
De Voss de bru’t, de Wachtel röppt,
De ganze Welt is still un slöppt.

Here hops a frog into the reeds
And sings its song when evening comes.
Foxes are skulking. Quails are calling.
The whole world is silent and asleep.

Du hörst din Schritt ni, wenn du geist,
Du hörst de Rüschen, wenn du steist,
Dat levt un wevt int ganze Feld,
As weert bi Nacht en anner Welt.

You can’t hear your steps when you walk.
You hear the rushes when you stop.
The whole field is alive and astir
As if by night it were a different world.

Denn ward dat Moor so wit un grot,
Denn ward de Minsch so lütt to Mod:
Wull weet, wa lang he dær de Heid
Noch frisch un kräfti geit!

That’s when the bog grows so wide and large.
That’s when human beings feel so small.
Who knows how much longer they will walk
So briskly and strongly upon the heath?