Far below, the quiet town moat
Flows and its waters are blue.
On it a young boy in a boat,
Is fishing and whistles a song too.

Yonder, appear in a colourful miniature,
As friendly as they ever could,
Pavilions, gardens and people,
And oxen and meadows and wood.

The maids are bleaching their washing,
And jump about on the lawn;
The mill wheel is spraying diamonds,
I hear its distant moan.

At the old grey tower
There is a sentry booth;
There, a lad in a red uniform
Is pacing back and forth.

He is toying with his rifle,
It glitters in the sunshine's red;
He presents and shoulders his weapon-
I wish he would shoot me dead.