Und allaweil dese lieder
Vere goin troo his het,
De writer lay von Sonntay
a-shleepin in his bett;
Vhen, lo! a yellow bigeon
Coom to him in a dream,
De same dat Mr. Barnum
Vonce had in his Museum.
Und dus out-shprach de bigeon:
"If you should brint de songs
Or oder dings of Breitmann
Vhich to dem on-belongs,
Dey will tread de road of Sturm and Drang,
Die wile es mohte leben,[75]
Und be mis-geborn in pattle-
To dis fate ish it ergeben."
Und dus rebly de dreamer:
"If on de ice it shlip,
Denn led id dake ids shanses,
Rip Sam, und let 'er rip!
Dou say'st id vill pe sturmy:
Vot sturmy ish, ish crand,
Crates heroes ish de beoples
In Uncle Samuel's land.
"Du bist ein rechter Gelbschnabel,[76]
O golden bigeon mine,
Und I'll fighdt id on dis summer,
If id dakes me all dis line.
Full liddle ish de discount,
Oopon de Yankee peeps."
"Go to hell!" exglaim de bigeon;
Foreby vas all mine shleeps.
Dere vent to Sout Carolina
A shentleman who dinked,[77]
Dat te pallads of der Breitmann
Should papered pe und inked.
Und dat he vouldt fixed de brintin
Before de writer know:
Dis make to many a brinter,
Fool many a bitter woe.
All in de down of Charleston,
A druckerei he found,
Where dey cut de copy into takes
Und sorted it around.
Und all vas goot peginnen,
For no man heeded mooch.
Dat half de jours vas Mericans
Und half of dem vas Dutch.
Und vorser shtill, anoder half
Had vorn de Federal plue,
Vhile de anti-half in Davis grey
Had peen Confeterates true.
Great Himmel! vot a shindy
Vas shdarted in de crowd,
Vhen some von read Hans Breitmann,
His Barty all aloud!
Und von goot-nadured Yankee,
He schwear id vos a shame,
To dell soosh lies on Dutchmen,
Und make of dem a game.
Boot dis make mad Fritz Luder,
Und he schwear dis treat of Hans,
Vos shoost so goot a barty
Ash any oder man's.
Und dat nodings vas so looscious
In all dis eartly shpeer,
Ash a quart mug fool of sauer-kraut,
Mit a plate of lager-bier.
Dat de Yankee might pe tam mit himself,
For he, der Fritz, hafe peen,
In many soosh a barty
Und all dose dings hafe seen.
All mad oopsproong de Yankee,
Mit all his passion ripe;
Und vired at Fritz mit de shootin-shtick,
Vheremit he vas fixin type.
It hit him on de occupit,
Und laid him on de floor;
For many a long day afder
I ween his het was sore.