“Dear brother, pray grant me this one last prayer: If my hours I now must number, O take my corpse to my country fair, That there it may peacefully slumber.
“The legion of honour, with ribbon red, Upon my bosom place thou, And put in my hand my musket dread, And my sword around me brace thou.
“And so in my grave will I silently lie, And watch like a guard o’er the forces, Until the roaring of cannon hear I, And the trampling of neighing horses.
“My Emperor then will ride over my grave, While the swords glitter brightly and rattle; Then armed to the teeth will I rise from the grave, For my Emperor hasting to battle!”
Good servant! up, and saddle quick, And leap upon thy steed, And to King Duncan’s castle then Through plain and forest speed.
Into the stable creep, and wait, ’Till by the helper spied; Then say: “Of Duncan’s daughters, which Has just become a bride?”
And if he says: “The brown one ’tis,” The news bring quickly home; But if he says: “The fair one ’tis,” More slowly thou mayst come.
Then go to the ropemaker’s shop, And buy a rope for me; And riding slowly, bring it here, And mute and silent be.
I’ll go not alone, my sweetheart dear! With me thou must go now To the cheery, old, and cosy room In the dreary cold abode of gloom, Where at the door my mother keeps guard, And for her son’s return looks hard.
“Away from me, thou gloomy man! Who bid thee come hither? Thy hand’s like ice, thine eye glows bright, Thy breath is burning, thy cheek is white;-- But I would rather my time beguile With smell of roses and sun’s sweet smile.”
The roses may smell, and the sun may shine, My darling sweetheart! Throw thy spreading white veil thy figure around, Make the chords of the echoing lyre resound, And sing a wedding song to me; The night-wind pipes the melody.
“Donna Clara! Donna Clara! Through long years the hotly-loved one Thou hast will’d now my destruction, Will’d it, too, without compassion.
“Donna Clara! Donna Clara! Very sweet the gift of life is! But beneath us all is fearful, In the tomb so dark and chilly.
“Donna Clara, joy! to-morrow Will Fernando at the altar As his wedded bride salute thee,-- Wilt thou ask me to the wedding?”
“Don Ramiro! Don Ramiro! Bitterly thy words are sounding, Bitt’rer than you stars’ decree is, Scoffing at my heart’s own wishes.