Pidder Lüng

The bailiff of Tondern, Henning Pogwisch,
slams his fist on the oak table:
Today I'll go over to Sylt myself,
and with my own hand, collect taxes and dues.
And if I can't get the fishermen's payments,
they'll lose their noses and ears,
And I mock their words:
Better dead than a slave.
Better dead than a slave.

In the ship's bow, the knight, armored,
leans darkly on his long sword.
Behind him, from the high clergy,
stands Jürgen, the priest, eager, ready.
He rubs his hands, he bows his neck.
I help the authorities catch the sinners,
and in the mud, the word is:
Better dead than a slave.
Better dead than a slave.

Towards Hörnum, the grand barge has sharpened its beak,
Followed by the fishing boats, filled with soldiers.
The keels crunch on the sand,
and the knight, the priest jump ashore,
and with weapons clashing behind them,
the mercenaries draw their blades from their sheaths.
Now it's time, Frisians:
Better dead than a slave!
Better dead than a slave.

The servants surround the first house,
Pidder Lung looks out the window in surprise.
The knight, the priest enter alone
through the meager threshold.
Long Peter's strong family
is sitting at the sparse lunch table.
Now show yourself, Pidder:
Better dead than a slave!
Better dead than a slave.

The knight bows with mocking scorn,
the priest is about to start his sermon.
The knight mockingly takes off his helmet
and bows once more: You allow us,
to disturb you during your meal,
quickly bring the tithe you forgot,
and your saying is garbage:
Better dead than a slave.
Better dead than a slave.

Pidder stands tall like a tree:
Henning Pogwisch, keep your speeches in check.
We've always been free from taxes,
And whether you want them or not, we don't care.
Leave with your hungry companions,
do you hear my dogs barking?
And the word remains standing:
Better dead than a slave!
Better dead than a slave.

Beggar, the bailiff snaps at him,
and the vein swells on the man in splints:
You won't eat your kale
until your money is here in abundance.
The priest mutters about stubbornness and bowing,
and hides behind the Ironman's back.
Oh word, don't disappear:
Better dead than a slave!
Better dead than a slave.

Pidder Lung stares at the bailiff like a madman,
The tyrant gets angrier and angrier,
And he spits into the steaming cabbage:
Now go to your trough, you pig.
And to end the embarrassing moment,
he turns to his men outside.
A muffled sound comes from inside:
Better dead than a slave!
Better dead than a slave.

Pidder takes one single leap,
He drags the bailiff to the bowl,
And dips his head in, not letting go,
Until the knight chokes in the scalding porridge,
Letting go of his fists from the terrible shaking,
He roars, the doors and walls tremble,
The proud word:
Better dead than a slave!
Better dead than a slave.

The priest lies unconscious at his feet,
The henchmen storm in with hellish greetings,
Piercing the fisherman and dragging him away,
In the dunes, in the village, knives and murder rage.
But Pidder Lung, before they completely destroy him,
calls out one last time in life, in death,
his masterful word:
Better dead than a slave!
Better dead than a slave.