There my Trumpeter also stands blowing,
Cast finely in bronze by a master's hand.
That they know us well here all are showing;
For, when I was going to pay at the inn,
The kind hostess refused quite indignant.
'Tis clear, in the town of St. Fridolin,
O'er us a bright star shines benignant.
The Trumpeter bravely has blown his way
Through much that his patience was tasking;
And the publisher also his joy doth betray: