Zwee Blatz sin do uf dare Bortsch,
Die halt ich hoch in Acht,
Bis meines Lebens Sonn versinkt
In schtiller Dodtes-Nacht!
Wo ich vum alte Vaterhaus
'S erscht mol bin gange fort.
Schtand mei' Mammi weinend da,
An sellem Rigel dort:
Un nix is mir so heilig nau
Als grade seller Ort.
* * * * * * *
Was macht's dass ich so dort hi' guk,
An sell End vun der Bank!
Weescht du's? Mei' Herz is noch net dodt,
Ich wees es, Got sei Dank!
Wie manchmal sass mai Dady dort,
Am Summer-Nochmiddag,
Die Hande uf der Schoos gekreizt,
Sei Schtock bei Seite lag.
Was hot er dort im Schtille g'denkt?
Wer mecht es wisse—sag?
I know not what the reason is:
Where'er I dwell or roam,
I make a pilgrimage each year,
To my old childhood home.
Have nothing there to give or get—
No legacy, no gold—
Yet by some home-attracting power
I'm evermore controlled;
This is the way the homesick do,
I often have been told.
* * * * * * *
As nearer to the spot I come
More sweetly am I drawn;
And something in my heart begins
To urge me faster on.
Ere quite I've reached the last hilltop—
You'll smile at me, I ween!—
I stretch myself high as I can,
To catch the view serene—
The dear old stone house through the trees
With shutters painted green!
* * * * * * *
How do I love those poplar trees;
What tall and stalely things!
See! on the top of one just now
A starling sits and sings.
He'll fall!—the twig bends with his weight!
He likes that danger best.
I see the red upon his wings,—
Dark shining is the rest.
I ween his little wife has built
On that same tree her nest.
* * * * * * *