And they fled in all directions;
Like a swarm of crows dispersing,
When the hail-shot flies among them.
And not few of them had fallen.
'Neath an apple-tree was lying
By the shore one who spoke feebly
To a comrade passing by him:
"Greet from me my poor old mother,
Also my Verena Frommherz.
Say, she can with a good conscience