“The stupid song and the stupid man!
“Indeed he has treated me badly;
“To a certain extent he has compromised me
“In matters political sadly.
“For if the French should ever come back,
“I must blush at their reappearance,
“Though I’ve pray’d with tears for their return
“To heaven with perseverance.
“I always have loved full well the French,
“So tiny yet full of sinew;
“Still wear they white breeches as formerly?
“Does their singing and springing continue?
“Right glad should I be to see them again,
“And yet I’m afraid to be twitted
“On account of the words of that cursèd song;
“And the sneers of its author half-witted!
“That Alfred de Musset[48], that lad upon town,
“Perchance will come as their drummer,
“And march at their head, and his wretched wit
“Play off on me all through the summer.”
Poor Father Rhine thus made his complaints,
And discontentedly splutter’d.—
In order to raise his sinking heart,
These comforting words I utter’d:
“O do not dread, good Father Rhine,
“The laugh of a Frenchman, which is
“Worth little, for he is no longer the same,
“And they also have alter’d their breeches.
“Their breeches are red, and no longer are white,
“They also have alter’d the button;
“No longer they sing and no longer they spring,
“But hang their heads like dead mutton.
“They now are philosophers all, and quote
“Hegel, Fichte, Kant, over their victuals;
“Tobacco they smoke, and beer they drink,
“And many play also at skittles.
“They’re all, like us Germans, becoming mere snobs,
“But carry it even farther;
“No longer they follow in Voltaire’s steps,
“But believe in Hengstenberg[49] rather.