Zu dem Wettgesange schreiten

Come the minnesingers, raising
Dust and laughter and lament.
Here's a contest that's amazing;
Here's a curious tournament.

Wild and ever restless Fancy
Is the minnesinger's horse,
Art his shield, the Word his lance; he

Bears them brightly round the course.
Many women pleased and pleasant,
Smile and drop a flower down;

But the right one's never present
With the rightful laurel-crown.
Other fighters nimbly canter
To the lists, care-free and whole;

But we minnesingers enter
With a death-wound in our soul.
And the one who wrings the inmost
Song-blood from his burning breast,

He's the victor; he shall win most
Praise and smiles and all the rest.