It lies on mountains in the Westphalia country,
The wonderful ruin, the Ravensberg mentioned.
It looks into far distance, a remainder of past splendour,
Over it the legend from power long buried blows.
Probably the time has shaken at walls and at tower,
Probably the storm brews, by empty elbows of the rains and
But is rooted giant-strongly in the native reason
the counts proud cradle, its monument to grant.
Before old times prevailed richly at city and country
On his Ravensberge a count with strong hand.
He loved its farmer, it was its sign and stronghold,
In the war with the sword, in peacetime with the word.
But with the age the count Bart and Haar bleached,
The tank was too wuchtig, the eye no more clear.
The sword, the helmet, the lance, it hung on the wall,
Of hand was fatigued controversies of the old knight.
It sat in its resounds, the concerns in the chest,
To the side its sons in fresh youth desire.
But as it on it arranges the gramumwoelkten view,
There glad shining returns to proud August.
You, my dear sons, are young and strong and boldly.
I become old and older, the forces me entfliehn.
Probably I have Vasallen, I have castle and country,
But it cannot protect any longer the ageweak hand.
Drum geb I means country you means sons two,
That with the count rule the strength is connected.
From the high Ravensberge I pull there down there.
In the lap of my farmers expect me the grave.
Thus it pulled with the countess down into the country
and stayed, where a Baechlein wound itself through meadow-green.
That probably drove some mill with merry Gebraus,
The place seemed to it convenient, here built it its house.
As moons now past, who would have that thought,
It happened that the count a child born ward.
Child flax was healthy and decoration and finely a boy.
It should once suspects from noble trunk to be
The father took the boys into his faithful arm,
He kisses it on the Stirne so affectionately and warmly;
It becomes, my dear Sproessling, the Ravensberg not yours,
You must be probably subordinate aeltern the brothers.
I can you only bequeathed some ritterliches property,
Not stubborn Vasallen, but faithful farmer blood.
Faithful hearts want to be on faithfully led,
Drum lede you de Buren, the inheritance becomes yours.
It has the son retains the old father word.
The grandchild hat's heard, it inherit away and away;
They led the farmers in peace and combat,
The Ledebur, then be called the flowering sex.
The Ravensberger rafter, knows in the red sign
And on the helmet feathers/springs, that is their coat of arms sign.