Die Forelle (The Trout) - D550

[haydnguy]

"Die Forelle" ("The Trout") Op.32 (D.550) is a lively lied or German art song, written in 1817 by the Austrian composer Franz Schubert (1797-1828). This immensely popular piece is for solo voice and piano. The lyrics it is set to are from a poem by Christian Friedrich Daniel Schubart. The piece is written with a Varied Strophic structure, meaning the "verse music" is generally the same, with one different verse.

The song is the basis of a set of variations in the fourth movement of Schubert's Trout Quintet (D.667) which dates from 1819.

It was also transcribed by Franz Liszt for solo piano in 1846.



Lyrics

Die Forelle

In einem Bächlein helle,
Da schoß in froher Eil
Die launische Forelle
Vorüber wie ein Pfeil.
Ich stand an dem Gestade
Und sah in süßer Ruh
Des muntern Fischleins Bade
Im klaren Bächlein zu.

Ein Fischer mit der Rute
Wohl an dem Ufer stand,
Und sah's mit kaltem Blute,
Wie sich das Fischlein wand.
So lang dem Wasser Helle,
So dacht ich, nicht gebricht,
So fängt er die Forelle
Mit seiner Angel nicht.

Doch endlich ward dem Diebe
Die Zeit zu lang. Er macht
Das Bächlein tückisch trübe,
Und eh ich es gedacht,
So zuckte seine Rute,
Das Fischlein zappelt dran,
Und ich mit regem Blute
Sah die Betrogene an.

Die ihr am goldenen Quelle
Der sicheren Jugend weilt,
Denkt doch an die Forelle,
Seht ihr Gefahr, so eilt!
Meist fehlt ihr nur aus Mangel
der Klugheit, Mädchen, seht
Verführer mit der Angel!
Sonst blutet ihr zu spät!



[ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hk_S9EGHjZE"]YouTube - Die Forelle D550[/ame]



Across a clear brook gentle,
There shot in eager haste
The trout, so tempramental;
Quite arrow-like it raced.
I on the shore was gazing
And watched the brook disclose
The merry fish's bathing
To me in sweet repose.

An angler's reel unrolled
From where he stood below.
He watched with blood most cold
The fish swim to and fro.
So long no stone or sod
Stirred up the water pure
The trout from line and rod
Would stay, I thought, secure.

At length the thief lost patience
And made the brook obscure
With crafty agitations,
And ere I could be sure
The rod had started curving;
The squirming fish was hooked.
With pounding blood observing,
At the betrayed, I looked.

You, at the fountain golden,
Of youth, so free from doubt,
Be to the trout beholden;
At danger's sign, clear out!
'Tis oft for want of reason
That maids will shun the straight.
Beware the anglers' treason
Else you may bleed too late!