The dew drifts about the darkening ground,
it gets dim amongst the snowdrifts,
above the oak grove
hangs a silver jug.
The night veils mound and hill,
it whispers under the heather,
four nights until Yule,
dance, ladies, in rings.
The first red and the second blue,
the third is green by the surf,
the fourth white by the golden brook,
she wears gilded jewel.
Above the oak grove
hangs a silver jug,
it shines over all the land,
dance, little Anna.