Sleep, little child, in your snug little bed:
May God take pity on the good sailors!
Sing your song, sing, old woman!
The moon is rising and the sea is awakening.

When you become a ship's boy, alas! it is the wind
which will cradle you in your unsettled bed.
Sing your song, sing, old woman!
The moon is rising and the sea is awakening.

In the cold lands, your father sank You were born then, and I no longer wept Sing your song, sing, old woman!
The moon is rising and the sea is awakening.

In that cold country, the swell of the fjords
Sings its lullaby while lulling the dead.
Sing your song, sing, old woman!
The moon is rising and the sea is awakening.

Sleep, little child, in your soft soft bed,
For you will go away as they all go away.
Sing your song, sing, old woman!
The moon is rising and the sea is awakening.

Your eyes already have the colour of the waves.
May God take pity on the good sailors!
Sing your song, sing, old woman!
The moon is rising and the sea is awakening.

Because it is for the waves we give birth
All die sailors, who were born Britons Sing your song, sing, old woman!
The moon is rising and the sea is awakening.

Sing, sing your song, old woman, sing!
The moon is rising and the sea is awakening.