Oh! wet must be the Wanderer, for it has rained to-day,
Though he a red umbrella has, from Rome brought all the way.
The wind was high, the road was rough, where slushy mud snow,
Lay on the long and winding path, and through it went our Joe!
He sneezed! a moment’s weakness, for speedily he cried,
“Bring me a glass of your Brantwein,[56] and a masz of Bier beside!”
It gave colour to his cheek and nose, yet took away his breath,
And he look’d like some old fox-hunter, new come in at the death:
(Chorus, discriminative and appreciatory:—)
Like some half-wash’d-out fox-hunter, that rides in at the death.