In the costume of the Beguins,
In the cloak with cap upon it
Of the coarsest blackest serge,
Is the youthful nun envelop’d.
Hastily along the Rhine banks
Paces she adown the highway
On the road to Holland, asking
Eagerly of every passer:
“Hast thou chanced to see Apollo?
“He a scarlet cloak is wearing,
“Sweetly sings he, plays the lyre,
“And he is my darling idol.”
None will answer her inquiry,
Many turn their backs in silence,
Many stare upon her smiling,
Many sigh: “Alas, poor creature!”
But along the highway trotting
Comes a slovenly old man;
Making figures in the air, he
Keeps on singing through his nose.
He a clumsy wallet carries,
And a little hat three-corner’d,
And with sharp and smiling eyes he
Listens to the nun’s inquiry:
“Hast thou chanced to see Apollo?
“He a scarlet cloak is wearing,
“Sweetly sings he, plays the lyre,
“And he is my darling idol.”
He however gave this answer,
Whilst his little head he waggled
Here and there, and comically
At his sharp beard kept on twitching:
“Have I chanced to see Apollo?
“Yes, I certainly have seen him
“When at Amsterdam full often,
“In the German synagogue.
“He was there the leading singer,
“Known by name of Rabbi Faibisch,
“Which in High-Dutch means Apollo,—
“But he’s not my idol truly.