Heavy is the smell of cinnamon,
Vorweinachtlichen in the air
warm thoughts flood my senses,
The sweet taste of Met stunned me,
still and peaceful is the cloud forest.
It bear the clammy hands,
the torch through the night,
faster it goes up the hill,
it blows the smell of apple pie in the frostbitten nose,
and the thoughts rushing advance,
warming at fireplace.
Finally climbed into the festivities,
runs burning liquor down his throat,
it glows and sparkles in the glow of the fire,
the fiddle strikes up a merry song,
you sit at the flames,
dances and laughs,
and hears the old Sängen Minnen,
over long periods and some whipped battle.
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