There, beyond the village,

Stands a hurdy-gurdy player;

With numb fingers

He plays as best he can.

Barefoot on the ice

He totters to and fro,

And his little plate

Remains forever empty.

No one wants to listen,

No one looks at him,

And the dogs growl

Around the old man.

And he lets everything

Go on as it will;

He plays and his

Hurdy-gurdy never stops.

Strange old man,

Shall I go with you?

Will you turn your

Hurdy-gurdy to my songs?

– Wilhelm Muller

(translated by Richard Wigmore)