Bursch Groggenburg.
[after the manner of schiller.]
“Bursch! if foaming beer content ye,
Come and drink your fill;
In our cellars there is plenty;
Himmel! how you swill!
That the liquor hath allurance,
Well I understand:
But ’tis really past endurance,
When you squeeze my hand!”
And he heard her as if dreaming,
Heard her half in awe;
And the meerschaum’s smoke came streaming
From his open jaw:
And his pulse beat somewhat quicker
Than it did before,
And he finished off his liquor,
Staggered through the door;
Bolted off direct to Munich,
And within the year
Underneath his German tunic
Stowed whole butts of beer.
And he drank like fifty fishes,
Drank till all was blue;
For he felt extremely vicious—
Somewhat thirsty too.
But at length this dire deboshing
Drew towards an end;
Few of all his silver groschen
Had he left to spend.
And he knew it was not prudent
Longer to remain;
So, with weary feet, the student
Wended home again.
At the tavern’s well-known portal
Knocks he as before,
And a waiter, rather mortal,
Hiccups through the door—
“Master’s sleeping in the kitchen;
You’ll alarm the house;
Yesterday the Jungfrau Fritchen
Married baker Kraus!”
Like a fiery comet bristling,
Rose the young man’s hair,
And, poor soul! he fell a-whistling
Out of sheer despair.
Down the gloomy street in silence,
Savage-calm he goes;
But he did no deed of vi’lence—
Only blew his nose.
Then he hired an airy garret
Near her dwelling-place;
Grew a beard of fiercest carrot,
Never washed his face;
Sate all day beside the casement,
Sate a dreary man;
Found in smoking such an easement
As the wretched can;
Stared for hours and hours together,
Stared yet more and more;
Till in fine and sunny weather,
At the baker’s door,
Stood, in apron white and mealy,
That belovèd dame,
Counting out the loaves so freely,
Selling of the same.
Then like a volcano puffing,
Smoked he out his pipe;
Sighed and supped on ducks and stuffing,
Ham and kraut and tripe;
Went to bed, and, in the morning,
Waited as before,
Still his eyes in anguish turning
To the baker’s door;
Till, with apron white and mealy,
Came the lovely dame,
Counting out the loaves so freely,
Selling of the same.
So one day—the fact’s amazing!—
On his post he died!
And they found the body gazing
At the baker’s bride.
Night and Morning.
[not by sir e. bulwer lytton.]
“Thy coffee, Tom, ’s untasted,
And thy egg is very cold;
Thy cheeks are wan and wasted,
Not rosy as of old.
My boy, what has come o’er ye?
You surely are not well!
Try some of that ham before ye,
And then, Tom, ring the bell!”
“I cannot eat, my mother,
My tongue is parched and bound,
And my head, somehow or other,
Is swimming round and round.
In my eyes there is a fulness,
And my pulse is beating quick;
On my brain is a weight of dulness:
Oh, mother, I am sick!”
“These long, long nights of watching
Are killing you outright;
The evening dews are catching,
And you’re out every night.
Why does that horrid grumbler,
Old Inkpen, work you so?”
(TOM—lene susurrans)
“My head! Oh, that tenth tumbler!
’Twas that which wrought my woe!”
The Biter Bit.
The sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair,
And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air;
The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea,
And happiness is everywhere, oh mother, but with me!
They are going to the church, mother,—I hear the marriage-bell;
It booms along the upland,—oh! it haunts me like a knell;
He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step,
And closely to his side she clings,—she does, the demirep!
They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood,
The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood;
And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear,
Wave their silver blossoms o’er him, as he leads his bridal fere.
He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed,
By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed;
And down the hedgerows where we’ve strayed again and yet again;
But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane!
He said that I was proud, mother,—that I looked for rank and gold;
He said I did not love him,—he said my words were cold;
He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game,—
And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn’t done the same?
I did not know my heart, mother,—I know it now too late;
I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler mate;
But no nobler suitor sought me,—and he has taken wing,
And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing.
You may lay me in my bed, mother,—my head is throbbing sore;
And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before;
And, if you’d do a kindness to your poor desponding child,
Draw me a pot of beer, mother—and, mother, draw it mild!
