III.
Wer wankt zu Fusse ganz allein
Gen Heidelberg zum Hirschen?
Das ist der Herr von Rodenstein,
Vorbei ist's mit dem Pirschen.
Who trots afoot alone to dine,
Still to the Stag a rover?
That is the Herr von Rodenstein,
But all his drinking's over.
'Landlord, your smallest beer for me
And one poor herring salted;
I've drunk so much of your Malvasie,
That all my taste has halted.
'What once the greatest thirst was called
At length has vanished hollow;
The last place in the Odenwald
I find I cannot swallow.
'Now call me in a notary
To write my will with prudence:
Pfaffenbeerfurt to the University,
And my thirst unto the students.
'It moves even me, though old and gray,
To see the cups they're swinging,
And if they drink like me, some day
They'll all in it be singing:
"Pfaffenbeerfurt is gone!
Pfaffenbeerfurt is done!
Pfaffenbeerfurt the dung-sparrow hole, as 'tis called,
Pfaffenbeerfurt the gem of the Odenwald,
Pfaffenbeerfurt is finished and swallowed.
"Hollaheh! it's gone at worst;
We've all our way of thinking;
They never say a word for thirst,
But always talk of drinking.
Pfaffenbeerfurt is gone!
Pfaffenbeerfurt is done!
Pfaffenbeerfurt the dung-sparrow hole, as 'tis called,
Pfaffenbeerfurt is finished and swallowed."'
Hol-li-roh!
[THE WELCOME.]
Und als der Herr von Rodenstein
Zum Frankenstein sich wandte,
Empfing er seinen Ehrenwein
So wie es Brauch im Lande.
And as the Herr von Rodenstein
To Frankenstein was going,
They served the 'wine of honour' fine,
To him great honour showing.
In Beerbach by the Town Hall brought
The Zentgrave with the people,
The owl-jug. The old lord laughed out--
'Bring up your sour tipple!
Ye fellows, let your voices sound!
The welcome goes around, around;
Hallo! the peasants owl-cup
Goes round, goes round!'
And when in the Lime of Frankenstein
The merry riders found them,
The castle-youth in garments fine
Came thickly thronging round them.
A jack-boot made of porcelain
They brought--he did not falter,
But drained it as he drew the rein,
While all sang out the psalter;
'Ye fellows, let your voices sound!
The welcome goes around, around;
Holliro! the boot-cup
Goes round, goes round!'
In the castle-court another swarm
Came with loud musket-banging,
While on the castle-master's arm
The second boot was hanging.
With their finest wine they filled the boot,
And grandly spoke the Ritter--
'Sir Neighbour--not upon one foot!
And this does not taste bitter.
Ye fellows, let your voices sound!
The welcome goes around, around;
Holliro! the boot-cup
Goes round, goes round!'
The Rodenstein drank out the cup;
'God bless your nose for ever,
For mine was nearly doubled up
In such a flowing river.
Now to your castle-hall, and there
We'll rest from this pace so killing;
I think in it your lady fair
The Charlemagne's horn is filling.
So once more let your voices sound!
The welcome goes around, around;
Holliro! the emperor's drink-horn
Goes round, goes round!'
Next morning lay a mantle white
Of fog o'er hill and valley;
They brought the album to the knight,
And in't he wrote this sally
With trembling hand--' Be this in sign
I folded here my banners,
And praise the House of Frankenstein,
As one of taste and manners.
Their welcome cheered my heart and head
So much I could not find my bed!
Holliro! not only boot-cup,
But everything went around!'
Hol-li-roh!
[THE PAWNING.]
Und wieder sass beim Weine
Im Waldhorn ob der Bruck
Der Herr vom Rodensteine
Mit schwerem Schluck und Gluck.
Again there sat hard drinking,
All in the Hunting Horn,
The Rodenstein ne'er winking,
Accurst with thirst forlorn.
The landlord wept the hour
He came his wine to try--
'He sits there like a tower,
And drinks me high and dry.
'How will it end? by thunder!
He never pays me--no!
I'll have to pawn his plunder,
Or else he will not go.'
The beadle went to work in
The tap-room of the Horn:
'Pull off your velvet jerkin,
Your boots, and all you've worn.
'Pull off the mantle round you,
Your gloves and sable hat;
Unto this host you've bound you
With all you have at that.'
Loud laughed the Rodensteiner--
'Go in!--that will not hurt.
It's airier and finer
To sit and drink in shirt!
'And till you pawn the swallow
Wherewith I drink my wine
I'll vex full many a fellow
In taverns on the Rhine.'
[THE PAGE.]
Der Herr vom Rodensteine
Sprach fiebrig und schabab:
'Ungern duld' ich alleine
Wo steckt mein treuer Knapp?
The Herr vom Rodensteine
Said, sick, in fever-rage,
'A lone in pain I pine--oh!
Where is my faithful page?
'I feel in head and belly
All pains that man annoy;
This time 'ts the neck, I tell ye;
Where is my jolly boy?'
Four of his men went riding--
Went riding at his beck:
They found the truant biding
By beer in Bremeneck.
He drank and spoke with sorrow:
'Brave Rodenstein--ah me!
Dark night and darker morrow!
I cannot come to thee.
'If you have had your stitches,
I, too, have grief, d'ye know?
They've got my coat and breeches,
And will not let me go!
The riders told, heart-breaking,
What they had witnessed there;
Their lord said, fever-shaking,
'Oh boy--that was not fair!
'And wilt thou leave me sweating
In need and pain away?
So shall thou stay there sitting
Until the Judgment Day!'
He spoke and died in fever--
His last sad word struck sore;
The page none can deliver--
He stays there evermore.
Of nights, like storm-winds howling,
You hear the knight in rage;
The Rodenstein loud growling,
Who asks, 'Where is my page?
[THE WILD ARMY.]
Das war der Herr von Rodenstein,
Der sprach: 'Das Gott mir helf,
Giebt's nirgend mehr'n Tropfen Wein
Des Nachts um halber Zwölf?
'Raus da! 'Raus aus dam Haus da!
Herr Wirth, das Gott mir helf,
Giebt's nirgend 'nen Tropfen Wein
Des Nachts um halber Zwölf?'
It was the Herr von Rodenstein
Who cried, 'By God in Heaven,
Why can't I find a drop of wine
By night at half-past 'leven?
Rouse there! rouse out of the house, there!
Come, landlord! help me, Heaven!
Great God, is there no wine about
By night at half-past 'leven?'
He went road-up, road-down apace--
No landlord made it right;
Death-thirsty and with fading face
He sighed into the night:
'Rouse out! rouse out of the house there!
Hey, landlord! help me, Heaven!
Can no one get a drop of wine
By night at half-past 'leven?'
And as with spear and hunters' frock
They bore him to the tomb,
The Blackguard Bell i' the old town clock
Began untouched to boom.
'Rouse there! rouse out of the house, there!
Hey, landlord! help us, Heaven!
Can no one get a drop of wine
By night at half-past 'leven?'
But those 'tis known who die of thirst
Ne'er rest in quiet graves,
So now he storms with dryness curst
As ghost around and raves:
'Rouse there! rouse out of the house, there!
Hey, landlord! help me, Heaven!
Can no one get a drop of wine
By night at half-past 'leven?'
And all who in the Odenwald
At midnight still are dry
Rush after him when he has called,
And yell, and roar, and cry:
'Rouse there! rouse out of the house, there!
Hey, landlord! help us, Heaven!
Can no one get a drop of wine
By night at half-past 'leven?'
This song we sing when fun must stop,
To hosts who'll sell no wine,
Who too precisely shuts up shop
Will catch the Rodenstein:
'Rouse there! rouse out of the house, there!
Rum diri di--Free fight
Hoi diri do!--Free night!
Boots!--to the fore!
Open the door!
Rouse-rouse-rouse!
With all of his wild crew--halloo!
The roaring Rodenstein.'
[RODENSTEIN AND THE PRIEST.]
Und wieder sprach der Rodenstein:
'Halloh, mein wildes Heer!
In Assmanshausen fall ich ein
Und trink' den Pfarrer leer.
'Raus da! 'raus aus dem Haus da!
Herr Pfarr', dass Gott Euch helf'.
Giebt's nirgends mehr ein' Tropfen Wein
Des Nachts um halber Zwölf?'
Again outspoke the Rodenstein--
'Hurrah! wild army:--fly!
In Assmanshausen there is wine;
Let's drink the parson dry!
Rouse there! rouse out o' th' house there!
Now, priest, God help your like
If there be left one drop of wine
When you hear midnight strike.'
The priest, a valiant clergyman,
Stood raging by the door;
With scapulary, cross, and bann,
He cursed the spirit o'er.
'Rouse there! rouse out o' th' house, there!
The devil help you delve,
If you dig out one drop of wine
Before the clock strikes twelve!'
But laughing growled the Rodenstein,
'Oh, priest, I'll catch you yet;
A ghost who's shut in front from wine,
Through the back door can get.
Fly'n there! fly'n there to the wine, there!
Hurrah--we're in! they shout.
His cellar is not badly filled!
Hurrah! we'll drink him out!'
Oh, poor and pious priestly heart!
Bad spirits rule this hour.
In vain he roared out cellar ward,
Till he cracked the vault with power--
'Swine there! swine there by the wine, there!
Is't decent, let me know?
Oh, can't you leave me wine enough
For a gentleman to show?'
And when the clock struck One, all rough
The ghosts began to cry,
'Ho, Parson! now we've got enough!
Ho, Parson! now good-bye!
Rouse there! rouse out o' th' house, there!
Now, Parson, all is sprung;
There runs no more one drop of wine
From spicket, jug, or bung!'
Then cursed the priest, 'My thanks to you,
Confound it!--All is gone.
Then I myself in your wild crew,
As chaplain will dash on!
Rouse there! rouse out o' th' house, there!
Sir Knight--at one we'll be.
If all my wine to the devil's gone,
The devil may preach for me!
Huzzah! Hallo!--Yo hi ha ho!
Rum diri di!--it's gone!
Hoy diri do!--I'm on!
In the devil's chorus--all before us,
Row--dow-dydow!'
[RODENSTEIN.]
Und wieder sprach der Rodenstein--
'Pelzkappenschwerenoth!
Hans Schleuning, Stabstrompeter mein,
Bist untreu oder todt?
Lebst noch? Lebst noch und hebst noch?
Man g'spürt dich nirgend mehr;
Schon naht die durf'tge Mainweinzeit,
Du musst mir wieder her!'
Again outspoke the Rodenstein--
'May thunder split my head!
Hans Schleuning, trumpeter of mine,
Art thou untrue or dead?
Art living man?--art moving?--
No trace I find of thee;
The thirsty May-wine time is near:--
Oh, come again to me!'
He rode till he to Darmstadt came,
And badly still he fared,
Till halting at The Old Black Lamb,
He through the window glared.
'He lives still!--thrives still!--lives still!
But ask not how from me.
How comes my brave old fugle-man
In such a company?'
Without a word, without a wink,
There sat a solemn crowd;
Small beer was all their evening drink,
There rang no word aloud.
'So-bri-ety, pro-pri-ety!
Is a great duty, sir!'
So whispered a small vestry-man
Unto a colporteur.
Among these half-glass tippling men
A silent guest there sat;
And as the clock struck eight just then,
He caught up stick and hat.
'What eight! what eight! Good-night! 'tis late!
I've learned good hours to keep;
Ah well!--a steady life's the best,
I'll go to bed and sleep!'
The Rodenstein in grimmest scorn
Glared o'er his horse's mane;
Then thrice he blew his hunting horn
With thundering refrain:
'Rouse there! rouse out o' th' house, there!
Rouse out your runaway!
That lame, tame guest, ye cursed crew,
Belongs to me, I say.'
A shudder swept across that guest
Like some strange sense of sin;
Then with a jug, like one possessed,
He smashed the window in.
'Rouse house, and curse the house, here!
Oh, horn and spur and scorn.
Oh Rodenstein! Oh, German wine!
I am not lost and lorn!
Rum diri di--all right,
Hey, diri da--free night!
Old patron mine--again I'm thine!
Huzza! Hallo!
Huzza! Hallo!
Yo hi a ho!--Arouse!
Hi--a-ho!
Hi--o!'
[HEIDELBERG.]
[NUMBER EIGHT.]
(IN THE COURT OF HOLLAND IN HEIDELBERG.)
Zwei Schatten seh' ich schweben
In später, später Nacht;
Wisst Ihr, wohin sie streben?--
--Beide auf Numero Acht!--
I see two shadows sweeping
In deep, deep night so late;
And know'st thou where they creeping?
--Both--both to Number Eight!
The porter hears them drumming,
And, waking, bids them wait:
He well knows who is coming,
Those two in Number Eight.
'Old Holland knows the crowd is
Right from the Wild Hunt straight!
Oh, owe, you gay old rowdies,
Who room in Number Eight!
'Is that the way a writer
Makes the world calls great?
You early-cock-tail-fighter,
You birds in Number Eight!
'Is't thus a pious pastor
On his flock should meditate?
You sinful-hearted master,
You rips in Number Eight!
The porter in his throttle
Deep grumbling holds debate,
And hears: 'Another bottle
Or two--for Number Eight!'
With a singing and a dinging,
And laughter long and great,
Till the landlord hears it ringing,
The two in Number Eight!
He spits and turns his nose up,
The bedstead groans with weight,
And then a snuff-pinch goes up,
'Those men in Number Eight!'
[THE MARTIN'S GOOSE.]
Der Mensch ist ein Barbar von Natur,
Er achtet nicht im mindesten die Nebencreatur,
Thut sieden sir und braten,
Verspeist sie mit Salaten,
Schütt't Wein oben drauf aus güldnem Gefäss
Und nennt das gelehrt: Ernährungsprocess.
All men are barbarous, 'tis true.
Nor care for their fellow-beings a sous.
They roast 'em, boil 'em, scour' em,
With salad then devour them;
Pour wine upon 'em in this condition,
And learnedly call the process nutrition.
I a good goose they have also caught,
Feathered and unto the table brought.
To King Gambrinus
Once spake Saint Martinus:
'This world, my lord, is nothing here,
But a priest's slice is good with wine or beer.'
The 'leventh November was the day
When he this with emphasis chanced to say,
'Therefore it is our use
To roast the Martin's Goose.'
I, poor bird, that is my reward,
And they eat me by a subscription card.
How different it was upon the heather,
When as gosling I stood for hours together,
On one foot resting,
My bill and eye twisting
Unto my true love, so handsome and fine,
Who had flown as a gander, of age, o'er the Rhine.
Oh, would that I ne'er in town had been,
Where never a cook of refinement is seen!
She laughed at me so rudely,
And pinched my legs so lewdly,
And said, 'Though you feel as if squeezed and jammed,
With Indian corn your crop must be crammed.'
So even while breathing and heaving sighs,
I am destined for roasts or Strasburg pies.
My mind is lost for ever,
I only grow in the liver;
They never ask, 'Is she gentle and fair?'
They only ask, 'What weight will she bear?
Is that our reward, because well behaved?
The world's capital one night we saved.
For, as they had been drinking,
All were asleep, unthinking;
Had it not been for our clatter and clack,
Rome had been French--yes, in Anno Tubak.
Save your scorn, gentlemen--take our advice,
We shall not save civilization twice;
And if to the Capitol,
Storm Claret, Hock, and Bowl,
No goose again will warn you from surprise,
Or hinder the red monkeys from dancing 'fore your eyes.
[THE LAST TROUSERS.]
Melody,--''Tis the last Rose of Summer.'
Letzte Hose, die mich schmückte,
Fahre wohl! dein Amt ist aus,
Ach auch Dich, die mich entzückte,
Schleppt ein Andrer nun nach Haus.
'Tis my la-a-st pair of bre-e-eches
Le-e-ft sa-a-dly a-lone;
Ah--and she too with her riches,
With another hence has gone.
Oh, they seemed in one piece knitted,
Such a pair is seldom matched;
Winter-buckskin, how they fitted!
Large plaid pattern, never patched!
Strutting proudly as a turkey,
With those breeks I first sailed in;
In my pocket to the door-key
Rang such lots of lovely tin.
Ah, we fall as we have risen--
Soon no specie showed its face;
And the Heidelberg town-prison
Is a dark and silent place.
Soon I pawned all things worth pawning,
Dress-coat, frock, and mantle light.
You too, now, ere morrow's dawning,
My last trousers, good--good-night!
Day of trial, with what sorrow
Do I feel thy pain at last;
Nothing earthly bides the morrow,
And the pledge-laws travel fast.
All must go, though strictly hoarded,
Oh, last trousers, last of mine!
Elkan Levi, gloomy, sordid,
Old clo',--take them, they are thine!
Boots!--of all my friends the truest,
Come and prop my suffering head;
But one pint, and that of newest,[[7]]
May'st thou bring--enough is said!
Then abed, from this sad hour,
I'll not rise, though all should ring,
Till a heavy golden shower
Through the roof comes pattering.
Then begone, for we must sever,
Greet thy fellows in their cell.
Ah! my legs already shiver;
My last breeches,--fare ye well!
[THE LAST POSTILLION.]
Bald ist, so weit die Menschheit haust,
Der Schienenweg gespannt;
Es keucht und schnaubt und stampft und saust
Das Dampfross rings durch's Land.
As soon as men have gathered there,
The iron road's at hand;
Then comes with scream and stamp and blare
The steam-horse through the land.
And if five hundred years should pass,
The learnedst cannot say
What once on earth a teamster was,
Or waggon-right and way.
And only in the solstice-night,
Where mystic figures gleam,
Tween earth and sky in lowering light,
You'll see a wondrous team.
The grey horse tramps, the whip cracks fair,
Loud rings the post-horn's tone;
A ghost comes coaching through the air,
A grey old postilli-ón.
On yellow coat in moonlight cold,
Thurn Taxis' buttons shine:
He smokes tobacco ages old,
From Ulm pipe brown and fine.
He smokes and speaks: 'Oh, earthly ball,
How changed since days of mine,
When I, with song and crack and call,
Was postman on the Rhine.
'Oh, time of passports, tramps, and knaves,
Of fees and sprees o' nights,
Of post-stalls and of wanderstaves,
Of high ideal flights.
'The world now moves by rent and cent,
The best long since are gone;
And with the last old porter went
The last old postilli-ón.
'Now steam runs wild, wind burns in haste,
All time has burst its bonds;
The sun paints pictures; lightning fast
The long wire corresponds.
'Oh, armour new!--Oh, same old fight!
Where is there peace to-day?
Oh, gas, phosphorus, steam, and light!
Away, my horse,--away!'
[WINE OF SIXTY-FIVE.]
In luftiger Trinkkemenaten
--Den Ort gesteht man nicht ein--
Da prüften drei späte Nomaden
Den edelsten pfälzischen Wein.
In a tavern, in cool, pleasant weather--
I know not the name or the sign--
Three travellers were drinking together
The noblest Palatinate wine.
In grand ruddy Römers was blinking
The fine pearling Rieslinger gold,
And vines on the trellis were winking
In moonlight from grape-eyes untold.
The first, a far-travelled and wary
Philologist, spoke out his mind:
'This was made by the fire-sprite and fairy,
With ether and sunshine combined.
So it glows and it flows ever finer;
Spirit-sparkling, soft-rythmic we mix;
Like Ionian drink-songs in minor,
When sung by Homerical bricks'
The second, a dried-up old fellow,
Who the law of the Romans professed,
'Proficiat,' said he, ''tis mellow.
'What we sip is not far from the best.
Who sees not when Bacchus's donum
In this glass gleams like gold i' the sun,
That the Justum, æquum et bonum,
In this Roman are blended in one.'
The third one, while trimming the tapers,
Said modestly, next: 'Do ye see
I'm no poet, and none of the papers
Get writin's from fellows like me.
But I tell you, my heart rattles quicker,
When such wine as I've got here I swills;
It's an out-and-out beautiful liquor,--
God bless them Palatinate hills!'
Meanwhile, with a spear on his shoulder,
By the bridge went a fourth man along;
And waving his weapon, the holder
Sang out to the night-wind his song.
'Ye gentlemen, hear what I'm singing:
The public need sleep--do you mind?
Eleven o'clock has done ringing;
You must all go to bed, or be fined!'
[PERKÊO.]
Das war der Zwerg Perkêo im Heidelberger Schloss,
An Wuchse klein und winzig, an Durste riesengross.
It was the dwarf Perkêo, in Heidelberg of old,
A wretched mite in stature, in thirst a giant bold.
When for a fool they jeered him: 'Good people mine,' said he,
'Would you were all wet-jolly, and fond of fun like me.'
But when the Tun of Heidelberg was filled with wine one year,
Then all his future standpoint unto the dwarf was clear.
'Farewell,' said he, 'oh, world, thou vale of miser-misery.
All things men turn their hand to is tout égal to me.
'For wooden, stupid notions full many heats are broke,
And what it all amounts to is dust and steam and smoke.
''Tis all in vino veritas. In drinking, from this day,
Will I, the tough old jester, pass all my life away.'
Perkêo sought the cellar, and forth no more came he,
For fifteen years deep drinking at Rhenish Malvasie.
Though all was dark around him, an inner radiance rained;
And though his legs went shaking, he drank and ne'er complained.
When first he sought the wine-vat 'twas heavy, full, and high;
But in his dying moments it rang empty, dull, and dry.
Then piously he uttered: 'Now praise the Lord at length,
Who in me, a weak mannikin, has shown such wondrous strength!
'As once in triumph David against Goliath stood,
So I, the little dwarflet, the giant Thirst subdued.
'Now sing a De profundis until the vault groans round.
The Tun is fairly done for. I fall with vict'ry crowned.'
And in the vault they laid him. Around his cellar-grave,
And from the empty wine-vat, as yet damp vapours wave.
And who, as pious pilgrim, has early sought that shrine,
Woe to him! In the evening he goes howling round in wine.
[THE RETURN HOME.]
Der Pfarrer von Assmanshausen sprach:
'Die Welt steckt tief in Sünden,
Doch wo der Meister Josephus steckt
Weiss Keiner mir zu künden.'
The priest of Assmanshausen spoke:
'The world lies deep in sin;
But where our Master Joseph lies
Knows neither kith nor kin.'
And as they decked for Christmas-tide,
The Rhine was frozen o'er;
There came a man in pilgrims garb,
And stood before the door.
'Now shrive me, shrive me, holy priest,
Full pardon I would gain;
All that my poor, sad-sorrowing heart,
May turn to joy again.
'The sin I did was this, that I
Did not in Rhine-land bide;
There's nothing like it in the world,
Wherever you run or ride.
'For a hundred leagues behind Lyóns,
I travelled France-land through;
And many a meal of oysters and sack
I ate, and enjoyed it too.
'Full oft at Marseilles in the Café Turk,
Among heathens and niggers I sat;
And, deep in the Pyrenean hills,
Garbanzos and garlic ate.
'Still whirls my brain when I recall
The mountain-lake maid Filuméne,
With gipsy-brown face and coal-black hair,
Each tooth like an ivory grain.
'But bepitched and besulphured is every land,
Without friends and song and love,
And shaken with fever, and all burned out,
From the foreign realms I rove.'
The priest of Assmanshausen spoke:
'Tis well, oh penitent soul;
Anoint thy lips with the purple wine
From this holy ancient bowl.
'And by that wine three days, three nights,
In the deep, dark cellar abide;
And drinking, keep by the barrels watch,
Till grace in thy heart shall glide.
'And then in the Crown and Anchor join
In spiritual exercise;
And not till the watchman warns you, leave
The club with its songs and cries.
'Then Heaven will surely show thee a sign,--
It heeds every penitent's woes!--
A delicate wine-green, a carbuncle red,
Will colour thy forehead and nose.
'And when that nose is a rubied one,
All care will quit thy brain;
And then may'st thou, oh, long-lost son,
Turn back to thy friends again.
'We're the same old fellows; still sing by wine
The songs which we sang from dark;
Of the Sparrow and the Goldfinch fine,
And the summer-heralding Lark.'
'We're the same old fellows, we love thee well,
Be thy heart from fretting free;
And hadst thou gone loafing yet further afar,
Still a calf we would slay for thee.'
The pilgrim sighed with tearful eye--
'Oh, priest, such a soothing word
As you have spoken, pious man,
In my travels I never heard.
'And now I strike my barren staff
Into this holy earth,
That it with spreading branches anew
May roof me a home and hearth.
'Flow on, thou Rhine vine-cluster blood.
Still thy hoards of grace remain;
In thy youth-giving fire-blood
I will bathe me to health again.
'Now shall the world, with its snares so bright,
Behold my back for ever.
Oh, Heidelberg, shining star in the night,
I leave thee never--and never!'
[MISCELLANEOUS.]
[HEINZ VON STEIN.]
Outrode from his wild dark castle
The terrible Heinz von Stein:
He came to the door of a tavern,
And gazed at the swinging sign.
He sat himself down at a table,
And growled for a bottle of wine;
Up came, with a flask and a corkscrew,
A maiden of beauty divine.
Then, seized with a deep love-longing,
He uttered, 'Oh, damosell mine,
Suppose you just give a few kisses
To the valorous Ritter von Stein.'
But she answered, 'The kissing business
Is entirely out of my line;
And I certainly will not begin it
On a countenance ugly as thine.'
Oh, then the bold knight was angry.
And curséd both coarse and fine;
And asked, 'How much is the swindle
For your sour and nasty wine?
And fiercely he rode to the castle,
And sat himself down to dine;
And this is the dreadful legend
Of the terrible Heinz von Stein.
[THE HOLY COAT AT TREVES.]
Freifrau von Droste Vischering,
Viva Vischering;
Zum heil'gen Rock nach Triere ging,
Tri tra Triere ging.
Frei-frau von Droste Fischering,
Fee-fau--Fischering;
To the Holy Coat went pilgriming,
Pee-pau--pilgriming.
She crawled upon all four--o,
And found it was a bore--o,
For gladly without crutches
One through this hard world pushes.
She cried as to the Coat she came,
Kee-kaw--Coat she came,
'I am in hand and footkin lame,
Fee-faw--footkin lame.
Thou, Coat, art avocations,
That maketh thee so gracious,
On me thy light increase, oh!
I am the Bishops niece, oh!'
And then the Coat, in its holy shrine,
Hee-haw--holy shrine,
At once gave out a silver shine,
See-saw-silver shine.
She felt it come all o'er her,
She kicked the chair before her.
Ran like the devil down the stair,
And left her crutches lying there.
Frei-frau von Droste Fischering,
Fee-faw--Fischering;
That night went dancing in a ring,
Ree-raw--in a ring.
This wonder which we now send
Took place in the year one thousand
Eight hundred four and foughty;
Who don't believe it--'s naughty.
[RAMBAMBO.]
Der Beglerbeg Rambambo,
Zu Belgrad im Castell,
Sprach: 'Alter Vizebambo,
Die Hitz' brennt wie die Höll.
The Beg-ler-beg Rambambo,
Near Belgrade's citadel,
Said: 'Capudan Vizebambo,
The heat's as hot as hell.
Drink as the Christians drink,
While the liquor flows;
Turkey is too dry a land,
As everybody knows.
'You cannoneer, fill up with beer
The bomb-shells up and down;
Fill up with beer the caniste-er,
And fire them at the town!'
At midnight hour bang went a gun,
A Pacha rides and says:
'By Allah!--Sire--all Belgarad
Is on a tearing blaze!
'All Belgarad is blazing drunk,
Without a cent to spend;
The Crescent's drinking with the Cross;
This war is at an end.
Drink as the Christians drink,
While the liquor flows;
Turkey is too dry a land,
As everybody knows.'
[BIBESCO.]
Auf dem Schlosse von Gradesco,
Hinterwärts von Temeswar,
Sass der tapfre Fürst Bibesco,
Serbien's greiser Hospodar.
In the Castle of Gradesco,
By the town of Temesvar,
Sat the valiant Prince Bibesco,
Servia's grey old hospodar.
Say,--what did the Prince Bibesco,
Servia's grey old hospodar,
In the Castle of Gradesco,
By the town of Temesvar?
Slibovitz drank Prince Bibesco,
Servia's grey old hospodar,
In the Castle of Gradesco,
Till he couldn't see a star.
[THE JOLLY BROTHER.]
BY COUNT ALBERT VON SCHLIPPENBACH.
Ein Heller und ein Batzen
Die waren beide mein,
Der Heller ward zu Wasser,
Der Batzen ward zu Wein.
A farthing and a sixpence,
And both of them were mine;
The farthing went for water,
And the sixpence went for wine.
The landlord and his daughter
Cry, both of them, 'Oh, woe!'
The landlord when I'm coming,
And the daughter when I go.
My shoes are all in pieces,
My boots are torn, d'ye see;
And yonder, on the hedges,
The birds are singing free.
And if there were no taverns,
I'd never wish to roam;
And no bung-hole in the barrel,
Then I couldn't drink at home.
[THE STUDENT'S DRESS-COAT.]
FROM WILHELM CASPARY.
Mein Frack ist im Pfandhaus, mein Frack ist nicht hier,
Du prangst stets im Ballkleid und ich nicht bei dir.
My dress-coat is spouted, my dress-coat ain't here.
While you in your ball-robes go splendid, my dear!
To parties with you I'm invited, you know;
But my best coat is spouted--my boots are no go.
The deuce take My Uncle, that rascally knave!
This pledging and pawning has made me his slave.
At the thought of his sign-post then three times I bawl:
While my trousers hang lonely and dark on the wall.
Farewell to thee, dear one, so lovely and rich!
My dress-coal is spouted--confound every stitch.
One would think that the devil through all my affairs--
Love, business, and fun--had been sowing his tares!
My dress-coat is spouted, my dress-coat ain't here,
While you in your ball-robes go splurging, my dear!
And the luck of the devil is loose over all,
While my trousers hang lonely and dark on the wall!
[AHASUERUS.]
THE SONG OF THE WANDERING JEW.
Ich bin der alte
Ahasuér.
I am the old
Ahasuér;
I wander here,
I wander there.
My rest is gone,
My heart is sair;
I find it never;
Never mair.
Loud roars the storm,
The mill-dams tear;
I cannot perish,
O Malheur!
My heart is void,
My head is bare:
I am the old
Ahasuér.
Belloweth ox,
And danceth bear;
I find them never,
Never mair.
I'm the old Hebrew
On a tear;
I order arms,
My heart is sair.
I'm goaded round
I know not where;
I wander here,
I wander there.
I'd like to sleep,
But must forbear:
I am the old
Ahasuér.
I meet folks alway
Unaware;
My rest is gone,
I'm in despair.
I cross all lands,
The sea I dare:
I travel here,
I wander there.
I feel such pain,
I sometimes swear;
I am the old
Ahasuér.
Criss-cross I ramble
Anywhere:
I find it never,
Never mair.
Against the wall
I lean my spear;
I find no quiet,
I declare.
My peace is lost,
I'm in despair;
I swing like pen~
dulum in air.
I'm hard of hearing,
You're aware.
Curaçoa is
A fine liquéur.
I listed once
En militaire.
I find no comfort
Anywhere.
But what's to stop it?
Pray declare.
My peace is gone,
My heart is sair;
I am the old
Ahasuér.
Now I know nothing,
Nothing mair.
[THE SONG OF THE WIDOW, CLARA
BAKETHECAKES.]
FROM THE PENNSYLVANIA GERMAN.
Oh, John! oh, John, was kummst du net by?
Bin ja zu habe, bin Wittfrah und frei:
Weis mehr vom heiren als all die Maid'
Weiss Haus zu halta und sell forstrate.
Oh, John! oh, John! why not hasten to me?
I'm to be had; I'm a widow and free.
I know more of marriage than any young maid;
I can keep house too, and that firstrate.
I have house, chairs, and table, and bed so tall,
And that is far better than nothing at all;
And though I once have been married before,
I want to again, love--yes--all the more!
Those who live single don't know how to live,
Never a cent for such life would I give;
Just come and marry, oh, sweetest of men;
Come to-morrow,--or now, dear--I don't care when.
But if you don't come, love, I'll go marry Ned;
Thoughts of him long, love, have passed through my head.
But I love you far better, and that is a fact;
With yearning for you, soul and body are racked.
Ned is too old, and two children has he,
And tougher and healthier you seem to be.
But if you don't ask me this week, without doubt,
Ned will be mine--so you'd better look out!
What is your will, John? Come, let it be seen;
Long, ah, too long, dear, unmarried I've been;
And longer I long not unmarried to stay;
John! come and wed, and we'll drive care away!
[THE HERRING.]
Ein Häring liebt' eine Auster
Im kühlen Meeresgrund.
A herring loved an oyster,
An oyster in the South;
And all the herring longed for
Was a kiss from her pearly mouth.
But the oyster, she was scornful,
And always stayed at home;
Shut up in her proud shell castle,
Where never a kiss could come.
But one summer-eve she opened
Her shell by a special grace;
For she fain in the ocean mirror
Would look at her lovely face.
The herring came swimming quickly,
And darted his head right in;
And, 'Now,' said he, 'or never,
'Sweet love, a kiss I'll win!'
But as to reach his darling,
Too far his head he leaned,
Snap came the shells together,
And he was guillotined.
All in the rosy sunlight
He floated from the shore;
And from his throat came gurgling,
'I'll never love oyster more!'
[FROM THE GERMAN GIPSY.]
An o isma me wium.
Pasch i chamaskri me beschdum,
Chadscherdi me pium,
Jake mato me wium!
I went to a tavern in the town,
By a table I sat me down,
Drank of brandy half-a-crown,
Drunk as the devil I tumbled down.
Drunk as the devil I tumbled down,
When I went to a tavern in the town,
And drank of brandy half-a crown,
As by a table I sat me down.
As by a table I sat me down,
I drank of brandy half-a-crown,
When I went to a tavern in the town,
And drunk as the devil I tumbled down.
I drank of brandy half-a-crown,
When I went to a tavern in the town,
And drunk as the devil I tumbled down,
As by a table I sat me down.
To be repeated as often as the singer obtains possession of
two-and-six-pence.
[BRIGAND SONG.]
Air,--Von Weber's Derniere Pensée.
'S giebt kein schönres Leben
Als das Räuberleben
In dem düstern, düstern, düstern Wald.
There's no life is nobbier
Than to be a rob-bier,
In the gloomy, gloomy, gloomy wood.
Always blood a-drinkin',
Killin' folks like winkin',
Little hinfants murderin' all we could.
Comes a carriage glidin',
Or a feller ridin',
Or a tinker travellin' with his cram.
Then each jovial rover
Holloas out, 'Shell over!
For your life we do not care a d--n!'
[DIE ZWEI FREUNDE.]
Ich habe nur zwei Freunde auf dieser Erde hier,
Und immer in der Mitternacht da kommen sie zu mir.
Der erste liegt begraben im fernen Span'schen Land,
Der zweite war ertrunken bei Alikante's Strand.
Ihr Kommen ist mir Wonne--Ihr Scheiden bitt're Pein,
Wenn beide wieder weichen im gold'nen Morgenschein.
Der Erste bei Kobolden macht sicheren Gewinn,
Der Zweite ist vermählet mit einer Meergöttin.
Was kümmert mich das Sterben wenn ich nur Freunde hab',
Im Wasser--in der Erde--im feucht und trockenen Grab.
Und sterb' ich wie ein Heiliger der geht in's Himmelreich,
Und schwing' ich an dem Galgen--mir ist es alles gleich.
C. G. L.
[THE TWO FRIENDS].
I have two friends, two glorious friends--two braver could not be,
And every night when midnight tolls they meet to laugh with me.
The first was shot by Carlist thieves, two years ago, in Spain;
The second drowned near Alicante,--while I alive remain.
I love to see their dim white forms come floating through the night,
And grieve to see them fade away in early morning light.
The first with gnomes in the Underland is leading a lordly life,
And the second has married a mermaiden, a beautiful water-wife.
And since I have friends in the earth and sea, with a few, I trust, on high,
Tis a matter of small account to me, the way that I must die.
For whether I sink in the foaming flood, or swing on the triple tree,
Or die in my bed, as a Christian should, is all the same to me.
C. G. L.
[TO THE READER.]
Gatter wela?
Gatter stéla?
Ap miro tschavo, ste!--German Gipsy.
I know not where you come from,
I care not where you go;
But this I'll bet my hand on,
Thou art a goode felówe.
I know not of your kindred,
I know not who you be;
But I am decidedly of the opinion, that if you have read this
book through from the title down to the present line, and enjoyed the perusal thereof as I have the translating,
You're just the one for me.
Vale!