THE COMET.

THE COMET.Ich armer Komet in dem himmlischen FeldWie ist's doch so windig mit mir bestellt!Ich leb' in steten Sorgen,Mein Licht selbst muss ich borgen ...Ich erscheine nur von Zeit zu ZeitDann muss ich wieder fort in die Dunkelheit.I a poor comet on high, you see,How windy and wild is my destiny!I live in constant sorrow,My light e'en I must borrow;I only appear from time to time,Then must wander away in gloom and grime.By lady Sun I'm ever distracted,And to her by power magnetic attracted;Yet she will not endureThat I should rise up to her,I must long for her from flights afar,For, alas! I'm in fact an eccentric star.The fixed stars all in bitter funDeclare I'm a lost and prodigal son.They say I still go totteringHere, there, among them pottering,And where I once on my way have beenNothing but dimness and darkness are seen.The planets regard me with scorn, and sayThat I always come bothering in their way.Dame Venus and her sistersCall me one of those crazy twisters,'His tail is too great, and his nucleus too small.Such an ill-made night stroller's worth nothing at all.'That I'm a scandal they cry or lisp,And call me a dreamer or Will-o'-the-wisp.And down on earth a-squinting,I see the learned ones printing,'He's neither firm nor settled, nor would be,Though he should spin to all eternity.'E'en Humboldt, who handles nothing lightly,Treats me in his Cosmos far from politely,And should he write--I ask all--And am I such a rascal?--'The wandering comet, much thinner than foam,With the smallest corps takes up the greatest room.'But bide yon star-gazing spitefuls!--bide?You don't know me yet from the innermost side.Some day I'll catch you--curse ye?And make you cry for mercy?Then you'll go through me, and I'll meet your hope,For with meteors I'll smash up your telescope.

Ich armer Komet in dem himmlischen Feld

Wie ist's doch so windig mit mir bestellt!

Ich leb' in steten Sorgen,

Mein Licht selbst muss ich borgen ...

Ich erscheine nur von Zeit zu Zeit

Dann muss ich wieder fort in die Dunkelheit.

I a poor comet on high, you see,

How windy and wild is my destiny!

I live in constant sorrow,

My light e'en I must borrow;

I only appear from time to time,

Then must wander away in gloom and grime.

By lady Sun I'm ever distracted,

And to her by power magnetic attracted;

Yet she will not endure

That I should rise up to her,

I must long for her from flights afar,

For, alas! I'm in fact an eccentric star.

The fixed stars all in bitter fun

Declare I'm a lost and prodigal son.

They say I still go tottering

Here, there, among them pottering,

And where I once on my way have been

Nothing but dimness and darkness are seen.

The planets regard me with scorn, and say

That I always come bothering in their way.

Dame Venus and her sisters

Call me one of those crazy twisters,

'His tail is too great, and his nucleus too small.

Such an ill-made night stroller's worth nothing at all.'

That I'm a scandal they cry or lisp,

And call me a dreamer or Will-o'-the-wisp.

And down on earth a-squinting,

I see the learned ones printing,

'He's neither firm nor settled, nor would be,

Though he should spin to all eternity.'

E'en Humboldt, who handles nothing lightly,

Treats me in his Cosmos far from politely,

And should he write--I ask all--

And am I such a rascal?--

'The wandering comet, much thinner than foam,

With the smallest corps takes up the greatest room.'

But bide yon star-gazing spitefuls!--bide?

You don't know me yet from the innermost side.

Some day I'll catch you--curse ye?

And make you cry for mercy?

Then you'll go through me, and I'll meet your hope,

For with meteors I'll smash up your telescope.

GUANO SONG.Ich weiss eine friedliche StelleIm schweigenden Ocean,Krystallhell schÃ¤umet die WelleZum Felsengestade hinan.I know of a peaceful islandAfar in the silent sea,Where around the rocky highlandPure billows are foaming free.In the harbour no ship is resting,No sailor is on the strand;And thousands of white birds nesting,Are the guards of the lonely land.Ever pondering pious questions,They labour right faithfully,For blessed are their digestions,And flowing like poetry.For the birds are all 'Philosophen,'To the principal precept inclined;If the body be properly open,Then all will go well with the mind.And the children pursue more enlightenedWhat their fathers in silence begun.To a mountain it rises, and whitenedBy rays of a tropical sun.In the rosiest light these sagesLook down at the future and say,In the course of historical agesWe shall fill up the ocean some day.And the recognition of meritIs theirs in these later days,For in Suabian land we hear itWhen the BÃ¶blinger Rapsbauer[5]says:'God bless you--guano sea-gull,Of the far away coast of the west:In spite of my countryman Hegel,The stuff which you make is the best.'

Ich weiss eine friedliche StelleIm schweigenden Ocean,Krystallhell schÃ¤umet die WelleZum Felsengestade hinan.

I know of a peaceful island

Afar in the silent sea,

Where around the rocky highland

Pure billows are foaming free.

In the harbour no ship is resting,

No sailor is on the strand;

And thousands of white birds nesting,

Are the guards of the lonely land.

Ever pondering pious questions,

They labour right faithfully,

For blessed are their digestions,

And flowing like poetry.

For the birds are all 'Philosophen,'

To the principal precept inclined;

If the body be properly open,

Then all will go well with the mind.

And the children pursue more enlightened

What their fathers in silence begun.

To a mountain it rises, and whitened

By rays of a tropical sun.

In the rosiest light these sages

Look down at the future and say,

In the course of historical ages

We shall fill up the ocean some day.

And the recognition of merit

Is theirs in these later days,

For in Suabian land we hear it

When the BÃ¶blinger Rapsbauer[5]says:

'God bless you--guano sea-gull,

Of the far away coast of the west:

In spite of my countryman Hegel,

The stuff which you make is the best.'

ASPHALTUM.Bestreuet aie HÃ¤upter mit Asche,Verhaltet die Nasen euch bang,Heut giebt's bei trÃ¼bfliessender FlascheEinen bituminÃ¶sen Gesang.Strew, strew all your heads with ashes,Hold your noses firmly and long;I sing by the lightning's pale flashesA wild and bituminous song.The wind of the desert is sweeping,Like fire by the dead Dead Sea;There a Dervish appointment is keeping,With a maiden from Galilee.'Twas ever a salty engulpher,In horrors excessively rich;In Lot's time there were lots of sulphur,And to-day it is piteous on pitch.No washwoman comes with a bucket,No thirsty man comes with a mug;For the one who would venture to suck itWould wish that his grave had been dug.Not a breath of a breeze is blowing,No waves on the waters fall,Though a strong smell of naphtha is flowing,They said, 'We don't mind it at all.'Two dark brown lumps were lyingLike rocks on the Dead Sea shore,And while tenderly loving and sighingThey sat down there--to rise no more.For the rock was pitch-naphtha which would notAllow them to stir e'en a stitch,And seated in concert, they could notRise up above concert pitch.Then all the disaster comprising,They wailed aloud: 'Allah is great!We stick and we stick--there's no rising,We stick and forever must wait!'There they sat like a lost pot and kettle,Their wails o'er the wilderness passed;They mummified little by little,And were turned to Asphaltum at last.A little bird flew for assistance,Away to the townlet of Zoar;But benumbed it fell down in the distance,It smelt so, it fluttered no more.And shuddering and pale as if flurried,A pilgrim procession went in--From the smell of the benzine it hurriedSo fast you'd not say 't had been seen.MORAL.In love or in turning a pennyAlways study the field of your luck;In petroleum and naphtha full manyEre now have been terribly 'stuck.'

Bestreuet aie HÃ¤upter mit Asche,Verhaltet die Nasen euch bang,Heut giebt's bei trÃ¼bfliessender FlascheEinen bituminÃ¶sen Gesang.

Strew, strew all your heads with ashes,

Hold your noses firmly and long;

I sing by the lightning's pale flashes

A wild and bituminous song.

The wind of the desert is sweeping,

Like fire by the dead Dead Sea;

There a Dervish appointment is keeping,

With a maiden from Galilee.

'Twas ever a salty engulpher,

In horrors excessively rich;

In Lot's time there were lots of sulphur,

And to-day it is piteous on pitch.

No washwoman comes with a bucket,

No thirsty man comes with a mug;

For the one who would venture to suck it

Would wish that his grave had been dug.

Not a breath of a breeze is blowing,

No waves on the waters fall,

Though a strong smell of naphtha is flowing,

They said, 'We don't mind it at all.'

Two dark brown lumps were lying

Like rocks on the Dead Sea shore,

And while tenderly loving and sighing

They sat down there--to rise no more.

For the rock was pitch-naphtha which would not

Allow them to stir e'en a stitch,

And seated in concert, they could not

Rise up above concert pitch.

Then all the disaster comprising,

They wailed aloud: 'Allah is great!

We stick and we stick--there's no rising,

We stick and forever must wait!'

There they sat like a lost pot and kettle,

Their wails o'er the wilderness passed;

They mummified little by little,

And were turned to Asphaltum at last.

A little bird flew for assistance,

Away to the townlet of Zoar;

But benumbed it fell down in the distance,

It smelt so, it fluttered no more.

And shuddering and pale as if flurried,

A pilgrim procession went in--

From the smell of the benzine it hurried

So fast you'd not say 't had been seen.

In love or in turning a penny

Always study the field of your luck;

In petroleum and naphtha full many

Ere now have been terribly 'stuck.'

THE PILE BUILDER.A Lacustrine Lyric.Dichtqualmende Nebel umfeuchtenEin PfahlbaugerÃ¼stwerk im SeeUnd fern ob der Waldwildniss leuchtenDie Alpen in ewigem Schnee.Damp smoky-like vapour is streamingO'er piles in the waters below.And far o'er the forest are gleamingThe Alps in perpetual snow.A man on a wood block is sittingIn furs, for the wind-draught is strong:With a flint chip a deer-horn splitting,While he mournfully murmurs a song:'See my face swollen up like the devil!Remark how in wind, as it spins,The history of Europe primÃ¦valWith rheumatics and toothache begins!'It is true that with stone-axe employment,Or with celts I can hammer my way,But no rational means of enjoymentIs known to the world in this day.'Wild animals, wolfish or beary,Howl fierce round my forest-tree brown;And when I build huts on the prairieThe buffaloes batter them down.'And so, to the beaver a debtor,I build for myself in the flood;The further from firm land the better,A pile-dam in shingle and mud.'But much I am forced to dispense withWhat ages to come will behold;I'd be glad of a good sword to fence with,But as yet there's no iron or gold.'In stocks I would gladly grow wealthy,But exchange is not yet understood:A good glass of beer would be healthy;But never a drop has been brewed.'And then how my horror increasesTo think of our cookery rude!How we crack a pig's bones into pieces,And suck out the marrow for food.'And how can the soul be expectedTo form an ideal of taste,When nothing but poles are erectedAround in a watery waste?'He sang With a voice hoarse and failing,With rheumatics his temper was grim;Two wild bears slipped over the poling,And, climbing, came snapping at him.Down he threw, as with anger he flushes,Axe, deer-horn, and drink-cup of clay,Sprang, splash! like a frog to the rushes,And paddled with curses away.Where once the Lacustrians plying,Drove many a pillar or stake,A strata of relics is lying'Neath the mud and the turf of the lake.And he who this song made for singing,Himself through those layers has mined,And the relics to daylight upbringing,Felt pride as a mortal refined.

Dichtqualmende Nebel umfeuchten

Ein PfahlbaugerÃ¼stwerk im See

Und fern ob der Waldwildniss leuchten

Die Alpen in ewigem Schnee.

Damp smoky-like vapour is streaming

O'er piles in the waters below.

And far o'er the forest are gleaming

The Alps in perpetual snow.

A man on a wood block is sitting

In furs, for the wind-draught is strong:

With a flint chip a deer-horn splitting,

While he mournfully murmurs a song:

'See my face swollen up like the devil!

Remark how in wind, as it spins,

The history of Europe primÃ¦val

With rheumatics and toothache begins!

'It is true that with stone-axe employment,

Or with celts I can hammer my way,

But no rational means of enjoyment

Is known to the world in this day.

'Wild animals, wolfish or beary,

Howl fierce round my forest-tree brown;

And when I build huts on the prairie

The buffaloes batter them down.

'And so, to the beaver a debtor,

I build for myself in the flood;

The further from firm land the better,

A pile-dam in shingle and mud.

'But much I am forced to dispense with

What ages to come will behold;

I'd be glad of a good sword to fence with,

But as yet there's no iron or gold.

'In stocks I would gladly grow wealthy,

But exchange is not yet understood:

A good glass of beer would be healthy;

But never a drop has been brewed.

'And then how my horror increases

To think of our cookery rude!

How we crack a pig's bones into pieces,

And suck out the marrow for food.

'And how can the soul be expected

To form an ideal of taste,

When nothing but poles are erected

Around in a watery waste?'

He sang With a voice hoarse and failing,

With rheumatics his temper was grim;

Two wild bears slipped over the poling,

And, climbing, came snapping at him.

Down he threw, as with anger he flushes,

Axe, deer-horn, and drink-cup of clay,

Sprang, splash! like a frog to the rushes,

And paddled with curses away.

Where once the Lacustrians plying,

Drove many a pillar or stake,

A strata of relics is lying

'Neath the mud and the turf of the lake.

And he who this song made for singing,

Himself through those layers has mined,

And the relics to daylight upbringing,

Felt pride as a mortal refined.

HESIOD.Licht glÃ¼hte des Helicon KlippeIn Mittagspurpur und Blau.Light gleamed upon Helicon's mountainIn the purple of mid-day and blue,As by Aganippe's clear fountainA shepherd boy slept in the dew.In seeking the lambs of his master,From Askra, he'd roamed through the wood,But now all the strength of the pastorBy the heat of the sun was subdued.Then from sun-lighted fields of old story,Came Nine who were heavenly fair;Their limbs were of beauty a glory,And a glory of gold was their hair.They moved as in musical numbers,To the grove, Aganippe across,And laid by the youth in his slumbers,Their gifts in the emerald moss.The first a bronze style like a feather,The second an inkstand of brass,The third a neat album in leather,The fourth a Bohemian glass,The fifth gave red wax and a taper,The sixth a gold eye-glass and sheath,The seventh cigars wrapped in paper,The eighth a sweet asphodel wreath.The ninth bent her knee in the heather,And kissed him full tender and true,Then vanished on high in the Ã¦therAs angels invariably do.Up sprung the young dreamer and pantedAnd sang in a measure sublime,And swung, like a creature enchanted,A twig of wild laurel in time.Then up came his friends 'mong the peasantsAnd praised his good fortune that day,And led him with all his fine presentsTo Askra in festive array:And there all the wisest or rudest,Considered the matter in doubt,Until the Nomarchos as shrewdestTo BÃ¶otia this sentence gave out.'To him heaven opens a portal,No more at the flocks let him look.He is destined to be an immortal,Write poems--and publish a book.'They found him a rod neat and slender,In long garments they gave him to God;Then he wrote them the Farmer's CalÃ©nder,And Theogony too--Hesiod.

Licht glÃ¼hte des Helicon KlippeIn Mittagspurpur und Blau.

Light gleamed upon Helicon's mountain

In the purple of mid-day and blue,

As by Aganippe's clear fountain

A shepherd boy slept in the dew.

In seeking the lambs of his master,

From Askra, he'd roamed through the wood,

But now all the strength of the pastor

By the heat of the sun was subdued.

Then from sun-lighted fields of old story,

Came Nine who were heavenly fair;

Their limbs were of beauty a glory,

And a glory of gold was their hair.

They moved as in musical numbers,

To the grove, Aganippe across,

And laid by the youth in his slumbers,

Their gifts in the emerald moss.

The first a bronze style like a feather,

The second an inkstand of brass,

The third a neat album in leather,

The fourth a Bohemian glass,

The fifth gave red wax and a taper,

The sixth a gold eye-glass and sheath,

The seventh cigars wrapped in paper,

The eighth a sweet asphodel wreath.

The ninth bent her knee in the heather,

And kissed him full tender and true,

Then vanished on high in the Ã¦ther

As angels invariably do.

Up sprung the young dreamer and panted

And sang in a measure sublime,

And swung, like a creature enchanted,

A twig of wild laurel in time.

Then up came his friends 'mong the peasants

And praised his good fortune that day,

And led him with all his fine presents

To Askra in festive array:

And there all the wisest or rudest,

Considered the matter in doubt,

Until the Nomarchos as shrewdest

To BÃ¶otia this sentence gave out.

'To him heaven opens a portal,

No more at the flocks let him look.

He is destined to be an immortal,

Write poems--and publish a book.'

They found him a rod neat and slender,

In long garments they gave him to God;

Then he wrote them the Farmer's CalÃ©nder,

And Theogony too--Hesiod.

MODERN GREEK.BY ATHANASIOS CHRISTOPOULOS.Ï€Î»Î¿Ï…Ï„Î¿Î½ Î´ÎµÎ½ Î¸ÎµÎ»Ï‰Î”Î¿Î¾Î±Î½ Î´ÎµÎ½ Î¸ÎµÎ»Ï‰ÎŸÏ…Ï„'ÎµÎ¾Î¿Ï…ÏƒÎ¹Î±Î½Î Î¿Ï„Îµ ÎºÎ±Î¼Î¼Î¹Î±Î½.Î”ÎµÎ½ Î¸ÎµÎ»Ï‰ Î³Î½Ï‰ÏƒÎ¹Î½Î¿Ï…Ï„Îµ ÎºÎ±Î½ Ï„Î¿ÏƒÎ·Î½Ì”ÎŸÏƒ'ÎµÎ¹Î½ Ï„Î¿Ï… Ï†Ï…Î»Î»Î¿Ï…ÎšÎ¹ Ì”Î¿Ïƒ'ÎµÎ¹Î½ Ï„Î¿Ï… Î¾Ï…Î»Î¿Ï….Î¤Î¿Ï…Ï„ÎµÏ‚ Ì”Î· ÎºÏÏ…ÎµÏ‚Î— Ï†Î±Î½Ï„Î±ÏƒÎ¹ÎµÏ‚Ì”ÎŸÏƒÏ‰ ÎµÏ…Ï†Î±Î¹Î½Î¿Ï…Î½Î¤Î¿ÏƒÏ‰ Ï€Î¹ÎºÏÎ±Î¹Î½Î¿Ï…Î½TRANSLATION.Reichthum und EhreNimmer ich 'gehre;Herrschaft und WÃ¼rde;WÃ¤r mir nur BÃ¼rde.I never desireWealth or fame to acquireHonour and stationWere but vexation.And to be learnedI'm no more concerned,Than in the thicketAre field-mouse and cricket.All those cold cheatingPhantom forms fleeting,'Stead of reviving,Are vexing and driving.MODERN GREEK.Î¸ÎµÎ»Ï‰ ÎµÎ¹ÏÎ·Î½Î·Î½Î¨Ï…Ï‡Î·Ï‚ Î³Î±Î»Î·Î½Î·Î½Î§Î¿ÏÎ¿Ï…Ï‚ ÎµÏÏ‰Ï„Ï‰Î½Î¤ÏÎµÎ»Î±Î¹Ï‚ ÎºÎ±Î¹ ÎºÏÎ¿Ï„Î¿Î½.Î˜ÎµÎ»Î¿ Ï„ÏÎ±Î³Î¿Ï…Î´Î¹Î±,ÎšÎ·Ï€Î¿Ï…Ï‚, Î»Î¿Ï…Î»Î¿Ï…Î´Î¹Î±ÎšÎ±Î¹ Ï‡Ï‰ÏÎ±Ï„Î±Î´Î±Î¹Ï‚Î£Ï„Î±Î¹Ï‚ Ï€ÏÎ±ÏƒÎ¹Î½Î±Î´Î±Î¹Ï‚.Î¤Î¿Ï…Ï„Î± Î»Î±Ï„ÏÎµÏ…Ï‰Î¤Î¿Ï…Ï„Î± Î³Î·Î»ÎµÏ…Ï‰Îš' Ì”ÎµÎ¹Ï‚ Ï„Î¿Ï…Ï„ Î±Ï€Î±Î½Ï‰Î˜ÎµÎ» Î½Î± Ï€Î¿Î¸Î±Î½Ï‰.]TRANSLATION.To me be givenThe sweet peace of heaven,A heart quiet resting,Frolic and jesting!Dramas sweet ringing,Ball play and singing,Music entrancing,Wild whirling dancing!Such I require,Such I desire,Rose-crowned, soTo the bier I would go!

Reichthum und EhreNimmer ich 'gehre;Herrschaft und WÃ¼rde;WÃ¤r mir nur BÃ¼rde.

I never desireWealth or fame to acquireHonour and stationWere but vexation.

And to be learnedI'm no more concerned,Than in the thicketAre field-mouse and cricket.

All those cold cheatingPhantom forms fleeting,'Stead of reviving,Are vexing and driving.

To me be givenThe sweet peace of heaven,A heart quiet resting,Frolic and jesting!

Dramas sweet ringing,Ball play and singing,Music entrancing,Wild whirling dancing!

Such I require,Such I desire,Rose-crowned, soTo the bier I would go!

PUMPUS OF PERUSIA.Feucht hing die Sonne. Des Novembers Schauer gingMit leisem FrÃ¶steln durch das Land Hetruria.Anpumpen, to pump, is a German slang term for borrowing. Pumpus was the name of an Etruscan prince.Dim was the sunlight, and November shiveringRan with a light frost o'er the land Etruria,A gentle head-ache of the last night's origin,Went threading through the air with weary pinion-beat;A weak and bankrupt feeling lay on hill and dale,The sacred olive tree, whose last thin yellow leafThrilled in the wind, stretched mournfully its branches forthBarren and bare, as wanting what was needfullest;E'en the street pavement was suspicious. To the eyeThe old primÃ¦val basalt's firm materialSeemed changed that day to very porous carbonate,And all things--all things--all things had a seedy look.Such was the day when, in the early morning hour,A weary wight from Populonia's portal went;In vain the guard on the Cyclopean city wallCast on the lord a hopeful glance for drink-money,--He drew him back--and glared at him--and gave nothing.There where the road goes winding towards SuessulÃ¦,And some old priest's strange ten-pin-towered monumentMournfully casts a shadow o'er the bleaching field,He paused awhile--in the reed grass stuck his javelin,And in his chlamys foldings sadly sought awhile,Then sought again--then made one more experiment--Yet found not what he sought for.Oh, who knows the painWhich rears up horse-like in a brave Etruscan heartWhen all things--all things--all things tend to poverty,And the horror of the Empty in the pocket dwellsWhere once the sesterce gaily by the denar rang!The helm removing from his heavy-laden head,He raised his right hand to his forehead thoughtfully,His tearful glance went back to Populonia,And lurid lightning flickered from his hero-eye.'Oh thou ChimÃ¦ra Tavern!' said he mournfully,'Was that the end of 't? Meant that the flock of birdsWhich three days past went croaking to the left hand side?Said that the oxen's, entrails enigmatical?Oh thou ChimÃ¦ra Tavern, what is pleasanterThan entering as a guest into thy guest-chamber?There neatly waits the experienced tavern-keeper;And heroes round the cool wine are convivial;Around the noble hill-descended Dimeros.From drinking mouths comes wisdom flowing thoughtfully,While at the upper linen-covered long table,Where Tegulinum's augur to the latest hour,Sternly defying, stands it like a bronze column,And sings in glees; that wonderful astrologer;--Oh thou ChimÃ¦ra Tavern, tell--if possible--Whither goes hurrying?--ha! what was't I nearly spoke?--What word--thrice god-curst word--on which--oh horrible!Hangs the Etruscan fate--ay, that's it--Ready Money!Oh Fufluns! Fufluns! Bacchus--dark and terrible!Now all is gone--away and gone away--ha--hummm!And yet a deed, I swear 't shall now by me be done,Such as the stupid world in dream has never dreamed,Shuddering and cold--my name shall to posterityBy this one deed be carried, awful, horrible,As true as I by this priest's grave am standing now,I--Pumpus of Perusia, the Etruscan prince.'He said--and went. A sunbeam fell uncannilyOn spear and helm. Cold light was o'er the cypresses,Deep the gale sighed--grave-deep--like moaning far-away.The world was innocent then. As yet no one had knownThe law of contracts with its windings intricate,And e'en the sage in silver beard was ignorantOf loans or such a deed as money borrowing;Yet on that day i' the forest by SuessulÃ¦One hero by another bold was borrowed from!This is the song of Pumpus of Perusia.

Feucht hing die Sonne. Des Novembers Schauer gingMit leisem FrÃ¶steln durch das Land Hetruria.

Anpumpen, to pump, is a German slang term for borrowing. Pumpus was the name of an Etruscan prince.

Dim was the sunlight, and November shiveringRan with a light frost o'er the land Etruria,A gentle head-ache of the last night's origin,Went threading through the air with weary pinion-beat;A weak and bankrupt feeling lay on hill and dale,The sacred olive tree, whose last thin yellow leafThrilled in the wind, stretched mournfully its branches forthBarren and bare, as wanting what was needfullest;E'en the street pavement was suspicious. To the eyeThe old primÃ¦val basalt's firm materialSeemed changed that day to very porous carbonate,And all things--all things--all things had a seedy look.

Such was the day when, in the early morning hour,A weary wight from Populonia's portal went;In vain the guard on the Cyclopean city wallCast on the lord a hopeful glance for drink-money,--He drew him back--and glared at him--and gave nothing.There where the road goes winding towards SuessulÃ¦,And some old priest's strange ten-pin-towered monumentMournfully casts a shadow o'er the bleaching field,He paused awhile--in the reed grass stuck his javelin,And in his chlamys foldings sadly sought awhile,Then sought again--then made one more experiment--Yet found not what he sought for.

Oh, who knows the pain

Which rears up horse-like in a brave Etruscan heartWhen all things--all things--all things tend to poverty,And the horror of the Empty in the pocket dwellsWhere once the sesterce gaily by the denar rang!

The helm removing from his heavy-laden head,He raised his right hand to his forehead thoughtfully,His tearful glance went back to Populonia,And lurid lightning flickered from his hero-eye.

'Oh thou ChimÃ¦ra Tavern!' said he mournfully,'Was that the end of 't? Meant that the flock of birdsWhich three days past went croaking to the left hand side?Said that the oxen's, entrails enigmatical?Oh thou ChimÃ¦ra Tavern, what is pleasanterThan entering as a guest into thy guest-chamber?There neatly waits the experienced tavern-keeper;And heroes round the cool wine are convivial;Around the noble hill-descended Dimeros.From drinking mouths comes wisdom flowing thoughtfully,While at the upper linen-covered long table,Where Tegulinum's augur to the latest hour,Sternly defying, stands it like a bronze column,And sings in glees; that wonderful astrologer;--Oh thou ChimÃ¦ra Tavern, tell--if possible--Whither goes hurrying?--ha! what was't I nearly spoke?--What word--thrice god-curst word--on which--oh horrible!Hangs the Etruscan fate--ay, that's it--Ready Money!Oh Fufluns! Fufluns! Bacchus--dark and terrible!Now all is gone--away and gone away--ha--hummm!And yet a deed, I swear 't shall now by me be done,Such as the stupid world in dream has never dreamed,Shuddering and cold--my name shall to posterityBy this one deed be carried, awful, horrible,As true as I by this priest's grave am standing now,I--Pumpus of Perusia, the Etruscan prince.'He said--and went. A sunbeam fell uncannilyOn spear and helm. Cold light was o'er the cypresses,Deep the gale sighed--grave-deep--like moaning far-away.

The world was innocent then. As yet no one had knownThe law of contracts with its windings intricate,And e'en the sage in silver beard was ignorantOf loans or such a deed as money borrowing;Yet on that day i' the forest by SuessulÃ¦One hero by another bold was borrowed from!This is the song of Pumpus of Perusia.

THE TEUTOBURGER BATTLE.Als die RÃ¶mer frech geworden,Zogen sie nach Deutschlands Norden,Vorne beim TrompetenschallRitt der GeneralfeldmarschallHerr Quinctilius Varus.When the Romans, rashly roving,Into Germany were moving,First of all--to flourish, partial--Rode 'mid trumps the great field-martial,Sir Quinctilius Varus.But in the Teutoburgian forestHow the north wind blew and chor-rused;Ravens flying through the air,And there was a perfume thereAs of blood and corpses.All at once, in sock and buskinsOut came rushing the CheruskinsHowling, 'Gott und Vaterland!'They went in with sword in hand,Against the Roman legions.Ah, it was an awful slaughter,And the cohorts ran like water;But of all the foe that day,The horsemen only got away,Because they were on horseback.O Quinctilius! wretched general,Knowest thou not that such our men are all?In a swamp he fell--how shocking!Lost two boots, a left-hand stocking.And, besides, was smothered.Then, with his temper growing wusser.Said to Centurion Titiusser,'Pull your sword out--never mind,And bore me through with it behind,Since the game is busted.'Scaevola, of law a student,Fine young fellow--but imprudentAs a youth of tender years,Served among the volunteers,--He was also captured.E'en his hoped-for death was baffled,For ere they got him to the scaffoldHe was stabbed quite unaware,And nailed fast en derriÃ¨reTo his Corpus Juris.When this forest fight was overHermann rubbed his hands in clover;And to do the thing up right,The Cheruscans did inviteTo a first-rate breakfast.But in Rome the wretched varmintsWent to purchase morning garments;Just as they had tapped a puncheon,And Augustus sat at luncheon,Came the mournful story.And the tidings so provoked him,That a peacock leg half choked him,And he cried--beyond control--'Varus--Varus--d--n your soul!Redde legiones!'His German slave, Hans Schmidt be-christened,Who in the corner stood and listened,Remarked, 'Der teufel take me wennHe efer kits dose droops acain,For tead men ish not lifin.'Now, in honour of the story,A monument they'll raise for glory.As for pedestal--they've done it;But who'll pay for a statue on itHeaven alone can tell us.

Als die RÃ¶mer frech geworden,Zogen sie nach Deutschlands Norden,Vorne beim TrompetenschallRitt der GeneralfeldmarschallHerr Quinctilius Varus.

When the Romans, rashly roving,Into Germany were moving,First of all--to flourish, partial--Rode 'mid trumps the great field-martial,Sir Quinctilius Varus.

But in the Teutoburgian forestHow the north wind blew and chor-rused;Ravens flying through the air,And there was a perfume thereAs of blood and corpses.

All at once, in sock and buskinsOut came rushing the CheruskinsHowling, 'Gott und Vaterland!'They went in with sword in hand,Against the Roman legions.

Ah, it was an awful slaughter,And the cohorts ran like water;But of all the foe that day,The horsemen only got away,Because they were on horseback.

O Quinctilius! wretched general,Knowest thou not that such our men are all?In a swamp he fell--how shocking!Lost two boots, a left-hand stocking.And, besides, was smothered.

Then, with his temper growing wusser.Said to Centurion Titiusser,'Pull your sword out--never mind,And bore me through with it behind,Since the game is busted.'

Scaevola, of law a student,Fine young fellow--but imprudentAs a youth of tender years,Served among the volunteers,--He was also captured.

E'en his hoped-for death was baffled,For ere they got him to the scaffoldHe was stabbed quite unaware,And nailed fast en derriÃ¨reTo his Corpus Juris.

When this forest fight was overHermann rubbed his hands in clover;And to do the thing up right,The Cheruscans did inviteTo a first-rate breakfast.

But in Rome the wretched varmintsWent to purchase morning garments;Just as they had tapped a puncheon,And Augustus sat at luncheon,Came the mournful story.

And the tidings so provoked him,That a peacock leg half choked him,And he cried--beyond control--'Varus--Varus--d--n your soul!Redde legiones!'

His German slave, Hans Schmidt be-christened,Who in the corner stood and listened,Remarked, 'Der teufel take me wennHe efer kits dose droops acain,For tead men ish not lifin.'

Now, in honour of the story,A monument they'll raise for glory.As for pedestal--they've done it;But who'll pay for a statue on itHeaven alone can tell us.

OLD ASSYRIAN--JONAH.Im schwarzen Wallfisch zu AscalonDa trank ein Mann drei Tag',Bis dass er steif wie ein BesenstielAm Marmortische lag.In the Black Whale at AscalonA man drank day by day,Till, stiff as any broom-handle,Upon the floor he lay.In the Black Whale at AscalonThe landlord said: 'I say,He's drinking of my date-juice wineMuch more than he can pay!'In the Black Whale at AscalonThe waiters brought the bill,In arrow-heads on six broad tilesTo him who thus did swill.In the Black Whale at AscalonThe guest cried out: 'O woe!I spent in the Lamb at NinevehMy money long ago!'In the Black Whale at AscalonThe clock struck half-past fourWhen the Nubian porter he did pitchThe stranger from the door.In the Black Whale at AscalonNo prophet hath renown;And he who there would drink in peaceMust pay the money down.

Im schwarzen Wallfisch zu AscalonDa trank ein Mann drei Tag',Bis dass er steif wie ein BesenstielAm Marmortische lag.

In the Black Whale at Ascalon

A man drank day by day,

Till, stiff as any broom-handle,

Upon the floor he lay.

In the Black Whale at Ascalon

The landlord said: 'I say,

He's drinking of my date-juice wine

Much more than he can pay!'

In the Black Whale at Ascalon

The waiters brought the bill,

In arrow-heads on six broad tiles

To him who thus did swill.

In the Black Whale at Ascalon

The guest cried out: 'O woe!

I spent in the Lamb at Nineveh

My money long ago!'

In the Black Whale at Ascalon

The clock struck half-past four

When the Nubian porter he did pitch

The stranger from the door.

In the Black Whale at Ascalon

No prophet hath renown;

And he who there would drink in peace

Must pay the money down.

BY THE BORDER.Ein RÃ¶mer stand in finstrer NachtAm deutschen Grenzwall Posten,Fern vom Castell war seine Wacht,Das Antlitz gegen Osten.Barritum civere vel maximum. Qui clamor ipso fervore certaminum a tenui susurro exoriens paullatimque adolescens situ extollitur fluctuum cantibus illisorum.--Ammian. Marcellin. xvi. 12.A Roman stood in midnight lost,For the German line selected;Far from the castle was his post,His glances east directed.He heard a murmur and a fuss,And distant voices ringing--No pÃ¦an of Horatius;Right savage was the singing:'Ha--haw--haw! we got ye safe at last,Got ye by the skirt, too--got ye firm and fast,You scamp, you!'With a maiden of the Chatten raceHe oft in love had meddled,And sought her in a lonely place,Disguised as one who peddled.Now came the vengeance--one, two, three!Now o'er the wall they're climbing,Screeching like cats in agony,With hatchet rattle chiming.'Ha--haw--haw! we got you safe at last,Got you by the skirt, too--got you firm and fast,You scamp, you!'He drew his sword, he blew his horn,And like a warrior shook him;But vain were pluck and Roman scorn--The savage Deutschers took him.They tied him fast, and in a wordAway with him went bounding,And when the cohort came, it heardFar through the pine-trees sounding:'Ha--haw--haw I we've got him safe at last,Got him by the skirt, too--got him firm and fast,You scamp, you!'In the holy grove, toward the east,Were all the Chatten foemen,To celebrate the Odin feastOf Jul, with blood of Roman.He felt himself like roasted meat'Twixt savage grinders going;Out sprang his blonde-haired darling sweet,And cried with tears hot flowing:Ha--haw--haw! I've got you safe at last,Got you by the skirt, too--got you firm and fast,You scamp, you!'Then all the Chats were deeply movedTo see her thus accost him,And said, 'Since they so well have loved,'Twould be a shame to roast him,Here let them wed.' This ends the tale.'Yes, wed at once before us;And all day long throughout the valeWe'll sing as bridal chorus,"Ha--haw--haw! were got you safe at last,Got you by the skirt, too--got you firm and fast,You scamp, you!"'

Ein RÃ¶mer stand in finstrer NachtAm deutschen Grenzwall Posten,Fern vom Castell war seine Wacht,Das Antlitz gegen Osten.

Barritum civere vel maximum. Qui clamor ipso fervore certaminum a tenui susurro exoriens paullatimque adolescens situ extollitur fluctuum cantibus illisorum.--Ammian. Marcellin. xvi. 12.

A Roman stood in midnight lost,

For the German line selected;

Far from the castle was his post,

His glances east directed.

He heard a murmur and a fuss,

And distant voices ringing--

No pÃ¦an of Horatius;

Right savage was the singing:

'Ha--haw--haw! we got ye safe at last,

Got ye by the skirt, too--got ye firm and fast,

You scamp, you!'

With a maiden of the Chatten race

He oft in love had meddled,

And sought her in a lonely place,

Disguised as one who peddled.

Now came the vengeance--one, two, three!

Now o'er the wall they're climbing,

Screeching like cats in agony,

With hatchet rattle chiming.

'Ha--haw--haw! we got you safe at last,

Got you by the skirt, too--got you firm and fast,

You scamp, you!'

He drew his sword, he blew his horn,

And like a warrior shook him;

But vain were pluck and Roman scorn--

The savage Deutschers took him.

They tied him fast, and in a word

Away with him went bounding,

And when the cohort came, it heard

Far through the pine-trees sounding:

'Ha--haw--haw I we've got him safe at last,

Got him by the skirt, too--got him firm and fast,

You scamp, you!'

In the holy grove, toward the east,

Were all the Chatten foemen,

To celebrate the Odin feast

Of Jul, with blood of Roman.

He felt himself like roasted meat

'Twixt savage grinders going;

Out sprang his blonde-haired darling sweet,

And cried with tears hot flowing:

Ha--haw--haw! I've got you safe at last,

Got you by the skirt, too--got you firm and fast,

You scamp, you!'

Then all the Chats were deeply moved

To see her thus accost him,

And said, 'Since they so well have loved,

'Twould be a shame to roast him,

Here let them wed.' This ends the tale.

'Yes, wed at once before us;

And all day long throughout the vale

We'll sing as bridal chorus,

"Ha--haw--haw! were got you safe at last,

Got you by the skirt, too--got you firm and fast,

You scamp, you!"'

HILDEBRAND AND HADUBRAND.DAS HILDEBRANDLIED..... Hiltibraht enti Hathubrant.Hildebrand und sein Sohn Hadubrand,Hadubrand,Ritten selbander in Wuth entbrannt,Wuth entbrannt,Gegen die Seestadt Venedig.Hildebrand und sein Sohn Hadubrand,Hadubrand,Keiner die Seestadt Venedig fand,--nedig fand,Da schimpften die beiden unflÃ¤thig.Hildebrand and his son Hadubrand,Hadubrand,Rode off together with sword in hand,Sword in hand,All to make war upon Venice.Hildebrand and his son Hadubrand,Hadubrand,Neither could find the Venetian land,'Netian land,Dire were their curses and menace.Hildebrand and his son Hadubrand,Hadubrand,Got drunk as lords in a jolly band,--jolly band--All the while swearing and bawling;Hildebrand and his son Hadubrand,Hadubrand,Drunk till they neither could walk or stand,Walk or stand,Home on all fours they went crawling.

.... Hiltibraht enti Hathubrant.Hildebrand und sein Sohn Hadubrand,Hadubrand,Ritten selbander in Wuth entbrannt,Wuth entbrannt,Gegen die Seestadt Venedig.Hildebrand und sein Sohn Hadubrand,Hadubrand,Keiner die Seestadt Venedig fand,--nedig fand,Da schimpften die beiden unflÃ¤thig.

.... Hiltibraht enti Hathubrant.

Hildebrand und sein Sohn Hadubrand,

Hadubrand,

Ritten selbander in Wuth entbrannt,

Wuth entbrannt,

Gegen die Seestadt Venedig.

Hildebrand und sein Sohn Hadubrand,

Hadubrand,

Keiner die Seestadt Venedig fand,

--nedig fand,

Da schimpften die beiden unflÃ¤thig.

Hildebrand and his son Hadubrand,

Hadubrand,

Rode off together with sword in hand,

Sword in hand,

All to make war upon Venice.

Hildebrand and his son Hadubrand,

Hadubrand,

Neither could find the Venetian land,

'Netian land,

Dire were their curses and menace.

Hildebrand and his son Hadubrand,

Hadubrand,

Got drunk as lords in a jolly band,

--jolly band--

All the while swearing and bawling;

Hildebrand and his son Hadubrand,

Hadubrand,

Drunk till they neither could walk or stand,

Walk or stand,

Home on all fours they went crawling.

SONG OF THE TRAVELLING STUDENTS.O liberales clericsNÃ» merchet rehte wi dem siDate: vobis dabiturIr sÃ¼lt lan offen iwer tÃ¼rVagis et egentibusSo gewinnet ihr das himelhÃ»s,Et in perenni gaudioAlsus alsÃ´, alsus alsÃ´!Pfarrherr, du kÃ¼hler, Ã¶ffne dein' Thor,Fahrende SchÃ¼ler stehen davor.Fahrende SchÃ¼ler, unstete Kind,Singer und Spieler, wirbliger Wind.Parson Sir Prudence, open your gate!Travelling students your welcome await!Travelling scholar, whimsical child!Singer and stroller, the wind-whirling wild.Iron throats for drinking--bellies like fires,Gold souls unshrinking--which no one desires,Thin garments sporting--weather so raw,Ah--and our courting--on hay and in straw!Parson, Sir Prudence, open your gate!Travelling students your welcome await!Suabia, Franconia have given us food,Sans ceremoniÃ©--an all eating brood;Fed us, rapacious, God keep them from harm!Like the voracious and wild locust swarm,What we've o'erpowered--once fertile and fair,All is devoured--shorn barren and bare.Parson Sir Prudence, open your gate!Travelling students your welcome await!Makest not thy oven free, miserly owl,We'll haul thee to Coventry straight by the cowl.Pull off your breeches, the shoes from your feet,Hang them like fitches out here in the street;He who would own it and do us a hurt,He must atone it in stockings and shirt.Parson Sir Prudence, open your tower!Travelling students your bars will o'erpower!Ho, ho, heiadihoh!Avoy, avoy, alez avanz!Alsus also, alsus alsus also!Ho ho heiadihoh, hoh, ho, ho!

O liberales clericsNÃ» merchet rehte wi dem siDate: vobis dabiturIr sÃ¼lt lan offen iwer tÃ¼rVagis et egentibusSo gewinnet ihr das himelhÃ»s,Et in perenni gaudioAlsus alsÃ´, alsus alsÃ´!

Pfarrherr, du kÃ¼hler, Ã¶ffne dein' Thor,Fahrende SchÃ¼ler stehen davor.Fahrende SchÃ¼ler, unstete Kind,Singer und Spieler, wirbliger Wind.

Parson Sir Prudence, open your gate!Travelling students your welcome await!Travelling scholar, whimsical child!Singer and stroller, the wind-whirling wild.Iron throats for drinking--bellies like fires,Gold souls unshrinking--which no one desires,Thin garments sporting--weather so raw,Ah--and our courting--on hay and in straw!Parson, Sir Prudence, open your gate!Travelling students your welcome await!Suabia, Franconia have given us food,Sans ceremoniÃ©--an all eating brood;Fed us, rapacious, God keep them from harm!Like the voracious and wild locust swarm,What we've o'erpowered--once fertile and fair,All is devoured--shorn barren and bare.Parson Sir Prudence, open your gate!Travelling students your welcome await!Makest not thy oven free, miserly owl,We'll haul thee to Coventry straight by the cowl.Pull off your breeches, the shoes from your feet,Hang them like fitches out here in the street;He who would own it and do us a hurt,He must atone it in stockings and shirt.

Parson Sir Prudence, open your tower!Travelling students your bars will o'erpower!

Ho, ho, heiadihoh!Avoy, avoy, alez avanz!Alsus also, alsus alsus also!Ho ho heiadihoh, hoh, ho, ho!

THE CLOISTER CELLAR MASTER'SSUMMER MORNING SONG.Hu weh! mir ist des Tages bang!Tret ich hinaus in den schweigenden BergwaldDen kaum das erste FrÃ¼hlicht erhellet,Wehe! noch lagert die Hitze von GesternUeber versengtetn Moos und GestrÃ¤uch.Ah me! what a dull day it is!If I go out in the wood on the mountainWhen the tops shine in the earliest sunlight,Ah! there still lingers the dry heat of yesternOn the singed mosses and withering shrubs,And all around me come m/idges by thousands,Stinging and bold,As if the hot sun were sprinkling in sparkles.Wide gaping crevices split the earth round us;Grass dries to hay before they can mow it,And in the air sweepsDust....Ah me! what a dull day it is!If I seek by the trunk of the giant-grown beech-treeA cool place to sit on the rough-hewn stone bench,Where by the eight-cornered slab of the tableThe brethren merrily rest in the forest,Ah! there the stone rays a heat that is horrible,Cannot endure me!All because I, when just seated, so nimblyJumped in a hurry.Grasshoppers sit, sound asleep, by the road-sideQuiet as can be.Dull....Ah me! what a dull day it is!These are the times, hey, when people and cattleAre scorching red-hot like the irons in a smithy!Pour on them drops or long floods of cold water,All would be swallowed and nothing be quenched.Ah!--hey!--the matin bell still is a-ringing,And I'm seized with a powerful yearning alreadyTo go to the cloister, and down to the cellar!Whether I'll tarry there steadily drinkingUntil the night comes,Or a loud clattering thunder in heavenBreaks up this wearisome terrible heat,I don't know,Only my thirst isDreadful....Ah me! what a dull day it is.

Hu weh! mir ist des Tages bang!Tret ich hinaus in den schweigenden BergwaldDen kaum das erste FrÃ¼hlicht erhellet,Wehe! noch lagert die Hitze von GesternUeber versengtetn Moos und GestrÃ¤uch.

Ah me! what a dull day it is!If I go out in the wood on the mountainWhen the tops shine in the earliest sunlight,Ah! there still lingers the dry heat of yesternOn the singed mosses and withering shrubs,And all around me come m/idges by thousands,Stinging and bold,As if the hot sun were sprinkling in sparkles.Wide gaping crevices split the earth round us;Grass dries to hay before they can mow it,And in the air sweepsDust....Ah me! what a dull day it is!If I seek by the trunk of the giant-grown beech-treeA cool place to sit on the rough-hewn stone bench,Where by the eight-cornered slab of the tableThe brethren merrily rest in the forest,Ah! there the stone rays a heat that is horrible,Cannot endure me!All because I, when just seated, so nimblyJumped in a hurry.Grasshoppers sit, sound asleep, by the road-sideQuiet as can be.Dull....Ah me! what a dull day it is!These are the times, hey, when people and cattleAre scorching red-hot like the irons in a smithy!Pour on them drops or long floods of cold water,All would be swallowed and nothing be quenched.Ah!--hey!--the matin bell still is a-ringing,And I'm seized with a powerful yearning alreadyTo go to the cloister, and down to the cellar!Whether I'll tarry there steadily drinkingUntil the night comes,Or a loud clattering thunder in heavenBreaks up this wearisome terrible heat,I don't know,Only my thirst isDreadful....Ah me! what a dull day it is.

THE MAULBRONN FUGUE.--'Wem das Kloster Maulbrunn bekandt, der hats kÃ¶nnen mit seinen Augen sehen, wie in dem Vorhoff selbiger schÃ¶nen erbauten Kirchen oben im Schwibbogen unter anderen GemÃ¤lden auch eine Gans abgemalt steht, an welcher eine FlÃ¤sch, BratwÃ¼rst, Bratspiss und dergleichen hangen, neben einer zur nassen Andacht gar wohl componirten Fuga folgenden Tenors mit ihrem unterlegten Text, gleichwohl nur den initialibus literis A. V. K. L. W. H. welches villeicht dieser durstigen MÃ¼nch und Religiosen Commentarius gewest, Ã¼ber das Hohelied Salomonis: Comedite amici et bibite et inebriamini charissimi, &c., &c.'--Tob. Wagner, Evangel. Censur der Besoldischen Motiven, &c. TÃ¼bingen, 1640.All voll Keiner Leer Wein HerAll Voll Keiner Leer Wein Her[English.]He who knows the Abbey Maulbrunn may have seen with his own eyes how in the fore court of this beautifully built church, above in the double arch, there is painted, among other pictures, that of a goose by which hang a bottle, sausages, a roasting spit, and like things, near a well-composed fugue adapted to wet devotion, on the following theme, with the subjoined text, although with only the initial lettersA. V. K. L. W. H.Or Alle Voll, Keiner Leer, Wein Her! meaning "All full, No one empty, Bring Wine here!"--which was perhaps the commentary of these thirsty monks and pious men on the Canticle of Solomon: Comedite amici et bibite et inebriamini charissimi, &c, &c.--Tobias Wagner, Evangel. Censur der Besoldischen Motiven, &c. TÃ¼bingen, 1640.Im WinterrefectoriumZu Maulbronn in dem KlosterDa geht was um den Tisch herumKlingt nicht wie Paternoster;Die Martinsgans hat woklgethan,Eilfinger blinkt im Kruge,Nun hebt die nasse Andacht anUnd alles singt die Fuge:A. V. K. L. W. H.Complete Pocula!In the winter refectoriumOf Maulbronn, in the cloister,One hears a merry sound and hum,Not like a paternoster.The Martin's goose has tasted well,Eilfinger wine they're bringing;Now let the wet devotion swell,While all the fugue are singing:A. V. K. L. W. H.Complete Pocula!The Abbot Duckfoot--Holy John,Came waddling in and grumbling:'What is't so late, when the feast is done,To fiddles ye are mumbling?Cease! ye disturb the Doctor Faust,In the garden tower behind there;If from his studies he be roused,No gold will he e'er find there.A. V. K. L. W. H.Cavete scandala!'Herr Faust sat backwards by the wall,Alone with pleasure-drinking,But now the sorcerer, pale and tall,Held forth the wine red blinking.Said he: 'I've studied making gold,By magic sought to win it;But now I see that I am sold,And that there's nothing in it.A. V. K. L. W. H.This is the gold--aha!'I find from Hermes TrismegistGold yields itself unwilling;The sun is the true alchemist,All fluidly distilling.When through our veins 't has glowed and relled;With Eilfinger we try it;Then you have gold, have real gold,And honourably come by it.A. V. K. L. W. H.HÃ¦c vera practica!'Then laughed the Abbot. 'That sounds fair;It sets me too to drinking,For All Voll, Keiner Leer, Wein Her!Is a wet fugue, I'm thinking.As Faust's gold-proverb it shall bePainted by the officialsIn the transept. All the melodyIs found in the initials.A. V. K. L. W. H.Sit vino gloria!'

--'Wem das Kloster Maulbrunn bekandt, der hats kÃ¶nnen mit seinen Augen sehen, wie in dem Vorhoff selbiger schÃ¶nen erbauten Kirchen oben im Schwibbogen unter anderen GemÃ¤lden auch eine Gans abgemalt steht, an welcher eine FlÃ¤sch, BratwÃ¼rst, Bratspiss und dergleichen hangen, neben einer zur nassen Andacht gar wohl componirten Fuga folgenden Tenors mit ihrem unterlegten Text, gleichwohl nur den initialibus literis A. V. K. L. W. H. welches villeicht dieser durstigen MÃ¼nch und Religiosen Commentarius gewest, Ã¼ber das Hohelied Salomonis: Comedite amici et bibite et inebriamini charissimi, &c., &c.'--Tob. Wagner, Evangel. Censur der Besoldischen Motiven, &c. TÃ¼bingen, 1640.

All voll Keiner Leer Wein HerAll Voll Keiner Leer Wein Her

[English.]He who knows the Abbey Maulbrunn may have seen with his own eyes how in the fore court of this beautifully built church, above in the double arch, there is painted, among other pictures, that of a goose by which hang a bottle, sausages, a roasting spit, and like things, near a well-composed fugue adapted to wet devotion, on the following theme, with the subjoined text, although with only the initial letters

A. V. K. L. W. H.

Or Alle Voll, Keiner Leer, Wein Her! meaning "All full, No one empty, Bring Wine here!"--which was perhaps the commentary of these thirsty monks and pious men on the Canticle of Solomon: Comedite amici et bibite et inebriamini charissimi, &c, &c.--Tobias Wagner, Evangel. Censur der Besoldischen Motiven, &c. TÃ¼bingen, 1640.

Im WinterrefectoriumZu Maulbronn in dem KlosterDa geht was um den Tisch herumKlingt nicht wie Paternoster;Die Martinsgans hat woklgethan,Eilfinger blinkt im Kruge,Nun hebt die nasse Andacht anUnd alles singt die Fuge:

A. V. K. L. W. H.Complete Pocula!

In the winter refectorium

Of Maulbronn, in the cloister,

One hears a merry sound and hum,

Not like a paternoster.

The Martin's goose has tasted well,

Eilfinger wine they're bringing;

Now let the wet devotion swell,

While all the fugue are singing:

A. V. K. L. W. H.

Complete Pocula!

The Abbot Duckfoot--Holy John,

Came waddling in and grumbling:

'What is't so late, when the feast is done,

To fiddles ye are mumbling?

Cease! ye disturb the Doctor Faust,

In the garden tower behind there;

If from his studies he be roused,

No gold will he e'er find there.

A. V. K. L. W. H.

Cavete scandala!'

Herr Faust sat backwards by the wall,

Alone with pleasure-drinking,

But now the sorcerer, pale and tall,

Held forth the wine red blinking.

Said he: 'I've studied making gold,

By magic sought to win it;

But now I see that I am sold,

And that there's nothing in it.

A. V. K. L. W. H.

This is the gold--aha!

'I find from Hermes Trismegist

Gold yields itself unwilling;

The sun is the true alchemist,

All fluidly distilling.

When through our veins 't has glowed and relled;

With Eilfinger we try it;

Then you have gold, have real gold,

And honourably come by it.

A. V. K. L. W. H.

HÃ¦c vera practica!'

Then laughed the Abbot. 'That sounds fair;

It sets me too to drinking,

For All Voll, Keiner Leer, Wein Her!

Is a wet fugue, I'm thinking.

As Faust's gold-proverb it shall be

Painted by the officials

In the transept. All the melody

Is found in the initials.

A. V. K. L. W. H.

Sit vino gloria!'

DER ENDERLE VON KETSCH.This ballad is founded on an incident narrated in the description of the Palatinate by Merian (1645), where, speaking of the village Ketsch, he tells us that--'The Counte Palatine Otto Heinrich, afterwards KurfÃ¼rst, sailed in the yeere 1530 to the Holie Lande and to Jerusalem. Returning thence, hee came over the greate open sea where a shipp from Norwaie mett him, and from it there came this crye: "Flye, flye, for ye fatt Enderle von Ketsch cometh!" Now, the Counte Palatine and his Chancellor MÃ¼ckenhÃ¤user knew a godless wretche of this name who dwelte at Ketsch, and therefore whenn they returned home they inquired of ye fatt Enderle and of the tyme of his deathe, and observed that itt agreed withe the tyme whenn they did heare the crye upon ye sea, as Weyland, a Professor of Heidelberg; hath narrated in divers wrytings which hee left behinde.'The translator has endeavoured to give this version of the extract from Merian in English corresponding to the style of the original old German.Jetzt weicht, jetzt flieht! Jetzt weicht, jetzt fliehtMit Zittern und ZÃ¤hnegefletsch:Jetzt weicht, jetzt flieht! Wir singen das LiedVom Enderle von Ketsch!CHORUS.'Away--along! Away--along!With, trembling, your jaws on the stretch.Away--along! We sing the songOf Enderle von Ketsch!SOLO.Ott Heinrich the Pfalzgrave of Rhine--oh!Spoke out of a morning; 'Rem blem!I'm tired of the sour Hock wine--oh!I'm off for Jerusalem.'Far lovelier, neater, and nicerAre the maids there who give you the cup;Oh, Chancellor! oh, MÃ¼ckenhÃ¤user,Five thousand gold ducats pack up.'And as before Joppa they anchoredThe Chancellor held up his hand:'Now drain to the dregs your last tankard,For the ducats are come to an end.'Ott Heinrich said, 'Well, and no wonder,--Rem blem! what remains to be seen!We'll paddle for Cyprus out yonder,And make a small raise on the Queen.'But just as the galley was dancingBy Cyprus, in beautiful night,A storm o'er the billows came prancing,With thunder and flashes of light.In a ghastly wild glare, by the landing,A black ship came rushing along;There a ghost in his shirt-sleeves was standing,And howling a horrible song.CHORUS.'Away--along! Away--along!With trembling, your jaws on the stretch.Away--along! I sing the songOf Enderle von Ketsch!'SOLO.The thunder grew calmer and wiser,Like oil lay the water below;But oh, the old brave MÃ¼ckenhÃ¤userThe Chancellor felt sorrow and woe.The Pfalzgrave stood up by the rudder,And gazed on the billowy foam;'Rem blem! all my soul's in a shudder,Oh, Cyprus--I travel for home!'God spare me such terrible menace--I'm wiser through trial and pain;Back, back on our course to old Venice--I'll ne'er borrow money again.'And he who 'mid heathens at tableHis cash to the devil has slammed,Let him hook it in peace while he's able,--It sounds like all hell and be damned!'[6]

This ballad is founded on an incident narrated in the description of the Palatinate by Merian (1645), where, speaking of the village Ketsch, he tells us that--'The Counte Palatine Otto Heinrich, afterwards KurfÃ¼rst, sailed in the yeere 1530 to the Holie Lande and to Jerusalem. Returning thence, hee came over the greate open sea where a shipp from Norwaie mett him, and from it there came this crye: "Flye, flye, for ye fatt Enderle von Ketsch cometh!" Now, the Counte Palatine and his Chancellor MÃ¼ckenhÃ¤user knew a godless wretche of this name who dwelte at Ketsch, and therefore whenn they returned home they inquired of ye fatt Enderle and of the tyme of his deathe, and observed that itt agreed withe the tyme whenn they did heare the crye upon ye sea, as Weyland, a Professor of Heidelberg; hath narrated in divers wrytings which hee left behinde.'

The translator has endeavoured to give this version of the extract from Merian in English corresponding to the style of the original old German.

Jetzt weicht, jetzt flieht! Jetzt weicht, jetzt fliehtMit Zittern und ZÃ¤hnegefletsch:Jetzt weicht, jetzt flieht! Wir singen das LiedVom Enderle von Ketsch!

'Away--along! Away--along!

With, trembling, your jaws on the stretch.

Away--along! We sing the song

Of Enderle von Ketsch!

Ott Heinrich the Pfalzgrave of Rhine--oh!

Spoke out of a morning; 'Rem blem!

I'm tired of the sour Hock wine--oh!

I'm off for Jerusalem.

'Far lovelier, neater, and nicer

Are the maids there who give you the cup;

Oh, Chancellor! oh, MÃ¼ckenhÃ¤user,

Five thousand gold ducats pack up.'

And as before Joppa they anchored

The Chancellor held up his hand:

'Now drain to the dregs your last tankard,

For the ducats are come to an end.'

Ott Heinrich said, 'Well, and no wonder,--

Rem blem! what remains to be seen!

We'll paddle for Cyprus out yonder,

And make a small raise on the Queen.'

But just as the galley was dancing

By Cyprus, in beautiful night,

A storm o'er the billows came prancing,

With thunder and flashes of light.

In a ghastly wild glare, by the landing,

A black ship came rushing along;

There a ghost in his shirt-sleeves was standing,

And howling a horrible song.

'Away--along! Away--along!

With trembling, your jaws on the stretch.

Away--along! I sing the song

Of Enderle von Ketsch!'

The thunder grew calmer and wiser,

Like oil lay the water below;

But oh, the old brave MÃ¼ckenhÃ¤user

The Chancellor felt sorrow and woe.

The Pfalzgrave stood up by the rudder,

And gazed on the billowy foam;

'Rem blem! all my soul's in a shudder,

Oh, Cyprus--I travel for home!

'God spare me such terrible menace--

I'm wiser through trial and pain;

Back, back on our course to old Venice--

I'll ne'er borrow money again.

'And he who 'mid heathens at table

His cash to the devil has slammed,

Let him hook it in peace while he's able,--

It sounds like all hell and be damned!'[6]

Back to Index Next