THE DUTCHMAN’S SERENADE.
Vake up, my schveet! Vake up, my lofe! Der moon dot can’t been seen abofe. Vake oud your eyes, und dough it’s late, I’ll make you oud a serenate.
Der shtreet dot’s kinder dampy vet, Und dhere vas no goot blace to set; My fiddle’s getting oud of dune, So blease get vakey wery soon.
O my lofe! my lofely lofe! Am you avake ub dhere abofe, Feeling sad und nice to hear Schneider’s fiddle schrabin near?
Vell, anyvay, obe loose your ear, Und try to saw if you kin hear From dem bedclose vat you’m among, Der little song I’m going to sung:
O lady, vake! Get vake! Und hear der tale I’ll tell; Oh, you vot’s schleebin’ sound ub dhere, I like you pooty vell!
Your plack eyes dhem don’t shine Ven you’m ashleep—so vake! (Yes, hurry up, und voke up quick, For gootness cracious sake!)
My schveet imbatience, lofe, I hobe you vill oxcuse: I’m singing schveetly (dhere, py Jinks! Dhere goes a shtring proke loose!)