Brander. You hog twice o'er!
Frosch. You wanted it, what would you more?
Siebel Out of the door with them that brawl! Strike up a round; swill, shout there, one and all! Wake up! Hurra!
Altmayer. Woe's me, I'm lost! Bring cotton! The rascal splits my ear-drum.
Siebel. Only shout on! When all the arches ring and yell, Then does the base make felt its true ground-swell.
Frosch. That's right, just throw him out, who undertakes to fret! A! tara! lara da!
Altmayer. A! tara! lara da!
Frosch. Our whistles all are wet.
[Sings.]
The dear old holy Romish realm,
What holds it still together?
Brander. A sorry song! Fie! a political song!
A tiresome song! Thank God each morning therefor,
That you have not the Romish realm to care for!
At least I count it a great gain that He
Kaiser nor chancellor has made of me.
E'en we can't do without a head, however;
To choose a pope let us endeavour.
You know what qualification throws
The casting vote and the true man shows.
Frosch [sings].
Lady Nightingale, upward soar,
Greet me my darling ten thousand times o'er.