Following anxiously treacherous fortune,
Fortune which e 'en as he grasps at it flees ;
Vain though the hopes that his yearning is seeking,
Yet does the pilgrim embark on the seas !

Ever impelled by the invisible power,
Destined to roam from the East to the West ;
Oft he remembers the faces of loved ones,
Dreams of the day when he, too, was at rest.

Chance may assign him a tomb on the desert,
Grant him a final asylum of peace ;
Soon by the world and his country forgotten,
God rest his soul when his wanderings cease !

Often the sorrowing pilgrim is envied,
Circling the globe like a sea-gull above ;
Little, ah, little they know what a void
Saddens his soul by the absence of love.

Home may the pilgrim return in the future,
Back to his loved ones his footsteps he bends ;
Naught wìll he find but the snow and the ruins,
Ashes of love and the tomb of his friends,

Pilgrim, begone ! Nor return more hereafter,
Stranger thou art in the land of thy birth ;
Others may sing of their love while rejoicing,
Thou once again must roam o'er the earth.

Pilgrim, begone ! Nor return more hereafter,
Dry are the tears that a while for thee ran ;
Pilgrim, begone ! And forget thine affliction,
Loud laughs the world at the sorrows of man.

Translated by Arthur P.Ferguson