Vocalist:  Tim Rolfe
Pianist:  Verda Pape
2 May 1994

Click for sound recording — 3:15 requires about 3.4 MBytes, quite low fidelity

Who rides there so late through night so wild?
A loving father with his young child;
He clasps his boy close with his fond arm,
And closer, closer to keep him warm.

"My son, what makes thy sweet face grow so white?"
"See, father, 'tis the Erl King in sight!
The Erl King stands there with crown and  . . .  shroud!"
"My son, it is some misty cloud."

"Thou dearest boy, wilt come with me?
And many games I'll play with thee;
Where varied blossoms grow on the wold,
And my mother hath many a robe of gold."

"My father, my father, say, did'st thou not hear
The Erl King whisper so low in mine ear?"
"Be tranquil, then be tranquil my child,
'Mong wither'd leaves the wind bloweth wild."

"Wilt come, proud boy, wilt thou come with me?
Where my beauteous daughter doth wait for thee;
With my daughter thou'lt join in the dance ev'ry night,
She'll lull thee with sweet songs to give thee delight,
And lull thee with sweet songs to give thee delight."

"My father, my father, and can'st thou not trace
The Erl King's daughter in yon dark place?"
"My son, my son, the form you there see
Is only the hollow grey willow tree."

"I love thee well, with me thou shalt ride on my course,
And if thou'rt unwilling, I seize thee by force!"
"Oh, father, my father! thy child closer clasp,
The Erl King hath seized me with icy grasp!"

His father shudder'd, his pace grew more wild,
He held to his bosom his poor moaning child.
He reached that house with toil and dread —
But in his arms lo! his child lay dead.