Darling boy, you are so merry, and your smile so bright and brittle,
Don't you ask for this dark rapture, spreading poison in its way.
You don't know yet, you don't know yet of the secret of this fiddle,
Of the deep and deadly horror of the one who starts to play!
He, whose hands pick up this fiddle to control it and command it,
Won't for ever feel the calmness touch his dark and dreary eyes.
Hellish spirits like to listen to these sounds, high and splendid,
And the fiddlers' steps are followed by the wolfish beastly cries.
Fiddle strings, resounding, ringing, must not cease their cries and singing,
And the bow, so madly swinging, must not ever have its rest -
In the sunlight, in the blizzard, in the stormwaves wildly slinging,
When the east is shining ember, when the sunset glows in west.
You will tire and slow your playing, halt the sounds for a moment,
But no cry or move will follow, nor another breath you'll draw -
Then the wolves will blindly lunge on, thirsting for your bloody torment,
Sink their fangs into your throat and crush your chest with mighty paw.
You will see then the malignant mockery of regal sounds,
And your stare will meet the power of the late imperious fear,
And the deathly dreary cold will wrap your body in its bounds,
And your friends will stand in sorrow, and your bride will shed a tear.
Further, boy! No joy or treasures will you find awaiting there!
But I see you smiling, laughing, eyes ablaze with will unbent.
Here then, take it, own this fiddle, meet the beasts' ungodly stare
And embrace your end of glory, fateful, fearful fiddler's end!