No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love,
For the pilgrim of love, for the pilgrim of love,
No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love.
Yet tarry, my son, till the burning noon passes,
Let boughs of the lemon tree shelter thine head;
The juice of ripe muscadel flows in my glasses,
And rushes fresh pulled for siesta are spread.
Ah! nay, courteous father, right onward I rove,
No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love.
For the pilgrim of love, for the pilgrim of love,