Yes, he’s talking, and his accent
Gentle is and Swabian; dreaming,
As though buried in deep thought,
Speaks he in the foll’wing fashion:
“Poor unhappy Swabian poet!
“In a foreign land I sadly
“Languish, as a dog enchanted,
“And a witch’s kettle watch!
“What a shameful sin is witchcraft!
“O how sad, how deeply tragic
“Is my fate,—with human feelings
“Underneath a dog’s exterior!
“Would that I at home had tarried
“With my trusty school companions!
“They’re at any rate no wizards,—
“Ne’er bewitch’d a single being!
“Would that I at home had tarried
“With Charles Mayer, with the fragrant
“Wallflow’rs of my native country,
“With its pudding-broth delicious!
“I’m half dead now with nostalgia—
“Would that I could see the smoke
“Rising from the chimneys where they
“Vermicelli cook at Stukkert!”
When I heard this, deep emotion
Came across me; quickly sprang I
From the couch, approach’d the fireplace,
And address’d him with compassion:
“Noble bard, say how it happens
“That thou’rt in this witch’s cottage?
“Tell me wherefore have they changed thee
“Cruelly into a pug-dog?”
But with joy exclaim’d the other:
“Then thou’rt really not a Frenchman,
“But a German, understanding
“All my silent monologue?
“Ah, dear countryman! how sad that
“Counc’llor-of-legation Kölle,
“When we o’er our pipes and glasses
“Held discussions in the beershop,