Farewell, Paris, beloved town!
I am leaving you today;
From your abundance of delights,
I turn and go away.

The German heart within my breast
Is suddenly ailing;
There’s but one doctor, in the North,
Who’ll cure it without failing.

His cures are famous, his cures are fast,
They are world-wide renowned;
Yet, I confess, I already dread
The mixtures he will compound.

Farewell, merry people of France!
Farewell, jolly brothers of mine!
A foolish yearning drives me away,
But I will be back in no time.

Just think, I miss the smell of peat!
It pains me to live without
The dear sheep of Lüneburg’s heath,
Turnip dishes and sauerkraut.

I long for tobacco-smell, councillors,
Watchmen, even coarse creatures,
I long for northern dialect, black bread
And blond-haired daughters of preachers.

I long for seeing my mother too!
A fact, I too often admit.
I haven’t seen the old Lady
For thirteen years, since I last quit.

Farewell my wife, my lovely wife!
You cannot grasp how I grieve.
I press you firmly to my heart,
And yet, I have to leave.

This painful yearning drives me away,
Away from you, o sweetest fate!
I need to breathe German air again,
Or else, I’ll suffocate.

The ache, the anguish, this pressing need
Heat up, they painfully compound.
My feet itch with impatient urge,
To set foot on German ground.

By the end of the year, I’ll be back
From Germany, all cured and sound,
And then I’ll buy you a New Year gift,
The loveliest, that could be found.