De Borrn bewäägt sik op un daal,
As gingst du langs ’n böken’n Bahl.
Dat Water schülpert in’e Graff.
De Grasnarv’ bevert op un af.
Dat geiht hendaal, dat geiht tohög’
So liesen as ’n Kinnerweg’.

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 bruun, de Heid’ is bruun,
Dat Wullgras schient so witt as Duun,
So week as Sied’, so rein as Snee.
Den Haadbaar reckt dat bet an’t 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 in’t Reet hentlang,
Un singt uns abends sien Gesang.
De Foss, de bruut. 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 höörst dien Schritt ni’, wenn du geihst.
Du höörst de Rüüschen, wenn du steihst.
Dat läävt un wäävt in’t ganze Feld,
As weer ’t bi Nacht ’n 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 wied un groot.
Denn ward de Minsch so lütt to Mood.
Wull wäät, wa’ lang he dœr de Heid’
Noch frisch un kräfti’ geiht!

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?