Tween earth and sky in lowering light,

You'll see a wondrous team.

The grey horse tramps, the whip cracks fair,

Loud rings the post-horn's tone;

A ghost comes coaching through the air,

A grey old postilli-ón.

On yellow coat in moonlight cold,

Thurn Taxis' buttons shine:

He smokes tobacco ages old,

From Ulm pipe brown and fine.