In the old country, a vocalist of miraculous voice Sang a sad song of people’s choice
Sang he the song of the swan’s death And people listened holding their breath
Flowed tears down their cheeks People of plains and of mountain peaks
Sang he, “Heard it I that when it is time for the swan to pass away She would ride a wave to a spot far away
“So her mood she would atone And let her sole fly alone.
“Heard it I that when it is time She would float sitting on the wave As there is no need for the bells to chime And that water for her is the chosen grave.
Miraculous was her birth Miraculous must be her death
As one night she hatched near the bank So she would, on another, die in the river’s flank
Heard it I that when it is time for the beautiful swan to pass away She would ride a wave to a spot far away
To die alone And to let her spirit be flown
Up high in clouds as fine As her white feathers it would shine
The white clouds would float in heaven For her pretty soul it is a given
On the night of her death Riding on a wave of beautiful breadth
She would float away To a spot far away
I have heard it said It is a story soft and sad From water she came To water she goes to finish the game
O my reader, Shed no tear Life and death are here To bear