Boot vhen he coom to rouge et noir,A tear fell tripplin denn,Id look so moosh like goot old dimes,To come dose games again.Yet vhen he lossed a hundred francs,He sadly toorned afay,"I'd rader keep de tiger here,Dan vight him, any day."
Und shtanding py de daple,He saw a French loretteVat porrowed shpecie all around,Und lossed at efery bet."Id's all de same mit dis or dat,Or any kind of sin,De lorette or de rolette - bot'Will make de money shpin."
He trinket of Le Pouhon well,Und from La Sauveniere;He tried it ad de Barisart,Und auch de Geronstere."Dey say dat Troot' lie in a well,So trink from all we can,Und here we'll prove dat Troot is Health,"Dat's so, sayd Breitemann.
So long in ruined FranchimontHe sat on hollowed ground,Und dinked of Wilhelm de la Marck,Who'd raked dat coontry round."Mein Gott! how id vas mofe mine heartTo read in hishdory,Und find de scattered shinin lightsOf vellers shoost like me!
"Dis nople boar-pig of Ardennes,Dis shtately Wallowin lord,Vas make him vamous py de pen,Und glorious py de swordt.Und showed his hero-scholarship,Vhen he wrote to de pishop, 'Satis,Brulabo monasteriumVestrum, si non payatis.'
"Dey say dat in de keller hereDere lifes a coblin briest,Dereto a teufelsjagersmannVot guard a specie chest.O if I vonce could find de vay,Und spot dat box of checks,I voonder shoost how long 'twould pePefore I'd twis deir necks."
Und in de Walk of Meyerbeer,Vhere plashin brooklets ring,He see vhere in de water wildDe wood-birds flip deir wing."Ash de prooklet's lost in de rifer,Und de rifer's lost in de sea,Mine soul kits lost on water 'plain,'"Says Breitemann, says he.
Und ash he walked de MeyerbeerHe marcked, peside de way,A rock shoost like a wild boar's head,Vraie tete du sanglier.Der Breitmann heafe a shiant sigh,Und say mit 'motion grand:Von crate idee ish uber allIn dis der Schweinpig's land.
He drafel troo de Val d'Ambleve,He lounge de schweet Sept Heures,He shdare indo de window-shops,Und see de painted ware.[58]He looket at de fans und dings,Denn said, "To tell de trut',Dere's painted vares more dear ash disOop shdairs in La Redoute."
Und sittin in de Champignon,Vitch rose 'neat Lofe's schweet hand,He read in books of Marmontel,Of Jeannette et Lubin.Id's nice to see SimplicitasRococoed oop mit vlowers,Und dink soosh virtue shdill may lifeIn dis base vorldt of ours.
'Tvas here, oopon de SpadoumontDeir gottashe used to set;'Tvas here they keeped von simple cowLikevise an lettuce-bett.Berhaps I hafe crown vorldly since,Yet shdill may druly say,Dat in mine poyhood's tays I vasApout so good ash dey.
But he vot vant to see dis land,Und has nod time for all:Eash woodland nook und shady brook;On Herr Marcette shouldt call.For he has baintet all to liveVhen de drees demselfs are gone;Und shoost so goot as artist, auch,Ish he bon compagnon.
Farevell, schveet Spa - dou home of vlowers,Of ruin and of rock,Vhere vild pirds sing und de band ish blayEash day at sefen o'clock.If all de shbrees dat Spa has seenVere melted into von,De soul vouldt reach Nirwana - lostIn transcendental fun.
"Hupsa! jonker Jan,Die wel ruiter worden kan."
BOON tidings to der Breitmann cameAsh he at table end,Dere's right goot fisch at Blankenberghe,Und oysters in Ostend.Denn to Ostland ve will reiten gaen,To Ostland o'er de sand,Dou und I mit pridle drawnFor dere ish de oyster land.
Und vhen dey shtood bei Ostersee,Vhere de waters roar like sin,Dere coom five hundert fischer volkTo dake der Breitmann in."Gotts doonder! Should ve doomple downAmoong de waters plue,I kess you'd vant more help from meDan I should vant from you!
"If you hat peen vhere I hafe peenUnd see vot I hafe see,Vhere de surf rise oop nine tausend feet,In de land of Nieuw JarsieUnd schwimmed dat surf ash I hafe schwimmed,Peside de Jersey stran'"-From dat day fort' de Ostland menShdeered glear of der Breitemann.
Boot von ding set him schvearin so,I dinked he'd nefer cease,De Ostend oysters kostet moreIn Ostend als Paris.Hans asked an anciendt fisherman,To 'splain dis if he may,Und says he, "Mijn Heer - dey're beter hierAls ein hundert leagues afay.
"Und as de oysters beter hierOf course dey kostet more"-Der Breitmann dook his bilcrim shdaff,Und toorned him to de toor.Says Hans, "De Vlaemsche fischermenCan sheat de vorldt I petDey sheaten von anoder too,All's fisch to a Dutchman's net.
"Der king peginned a palace hier,De palace hat to shtop,He foundt de beoples sheaten soHe gife de bildin oop.Aldough das Leben hier ish goot,Ad least Ostend-sibly"-So shpoke der Breitemann und cutDat city py de sea.
"Wie kennt die stad waer alles nogVan Vlaenderens grootheid spreekt?Waer ontrouw, valschheid en bedrogVan schaemte nog verbleekt?"- Ledeganck.
If I hat gold, as I hafe time,I tells you how 'tvere shpent,On efery year I'd shtay a weekIn Vlanderen's hoofstad, Gent.For, oh! de sveet wild veelins,In dat stad do mofe me so,Vhen I'd dink of all de clorious menVot life dere long aco.
If efer man hat manly heart,He'd veel dat heart to beat,Vhen mit de oldten dime of GhentHe valks troo efery shdreet.Und ach! de volk are yet so goot,It gave me soosh a pliss,Vhen I hear a bier-hous spielman singA melodie like dis:-
"Het was op eenen Monday,All on a Monday free,Dat mijnheere Jacob Van ArteveldeUnto his men said he:He seide - 'Mijn lief gesellen,Ve all moost ride out land,And trive our way to Bruges townOr Brussel in Braband.'
"Und as he oonto Brussel cam,De meisjes sprong from bed,Und found Mynheere Van ArteveldeMit a cross-bolt troo his head."Und shoost pecause dis bier-hous songRecht troo my heartsen vent,I feel dat I could life und dieAll in de down of Gent.
——-
IN dis boem, mein freund der Herr Breitmann hafe his fiews on art pefore-geset mit a deepness und shorthood vich is bropably oonliked in Aesthetik. Ve hafe here, within de circumcomprehensifeness of dirty-two lines, a theorie vitch - shortsomely exbressed - sends to der teufel efery dings ash vas efer gescribed pefore on kunst or art, und maket efery podies from Baumgartner doun to Fischer und Taine, look shoost like puddin-headet old gasbalgs. Boot to de boem. For de informadion of dem ash ish not gestudied art, I vould shtate dat Adriaan Brauwer (who ish as regards an unvollkomene technik de first of all Holland malers), vas nefer paint nodings boot droonken plackguards und liederlich dings, und Van Ostade und Jan Steen vas in most deir bilds a goot deal like him. - FRITZ SCHWACKENHAMMER.
Hans reitet troo de Nederland,From Rotterdam below,To Gravenhaag und LeydenUnd Haarlem - all a row;He shtoodit in de galleriesA tausend works of art;Boot ach - der Adriaan Brauwer,Vent most teepest to his heart.
Und dus exglaim der BreitmannIn woonder-solemn shdrain,"De cratest men vere Brauwer,Van Ostade, und Jan Steen.Der Raffael vas vel enof;Dat ish in his shmall vay;Boot - Gott im Himmel! - vot vas heCoompared mit soosh as dey?
"Shoost see dat vight of troonken boors-Von tears de oder's goat:Vhile de oder mit a pointet knifeIsh goin for his troat.Und a madchen mit a tree-leg shtuhlIsh clip him on de het,In dese higher human passion valks,Der Raffael's coldt und deadt.
"De more ve digs into de eart'-Or less ve seeks a star,-De nearer ve to Natur coom,More pantheistich far;To him who reads dis myst'ry right,Mit insbiration gifen,Der Raffael's rollen in de dirt,Vhile Brauwer soars to Heafen.
TIS shveet to valk in Holland townsApout de twilicht tide,Vhen all ish shdill on proad canals,Safe vhere a poat may clide.Shdrange light on darkenin vater falls,In long soft lines afar,Der abenddroth on dunkelheit,Vitch shows - or hides - a star.
De pridges risen all aroundtSo quaindly, left und right,Pedween each pridge und shattow, lies,A lemon of yellow light,Und das volk a-goin ober,So darklin onwarts pass,Dey look like Chinese shattows - shownApofe a lookin-glass.
All shdiller grows, und shdiller,Sogar die efenin preeze,Ish only heardt far ober hetIn dese long lines of drees;A real oldt Holland feelinCooms gadderin ober all,You'd nefer dink a sturm hat peenOopon dis Grand Canawl.
De nople houses! - how dey'd mofeAn old New Yorker's heart,Time vas - twix dese und dose at homeYou couldn't tell 'em part,Mit crate brass knockers on de toors,Und parlors town so lowYou see de crates a glowin priteO'er carbets ash you go.
Dere's comfort-full of avery dings,You veel it ash you look,You knows de volks ish opulend,Und keep a bully cook;Und oopon de high camine,Or here und dere on shelf,Dere's Japanesisch dings in rows,Pe mingled oop mit delf.
Dere's noding in dis Holland life,Vitch seems of present day,De fery shildren in de shdreedsLook quaintlich as dey blay;De liddle rosy housemaids,In bicdures vell I know,De dames und heers hafe all an airOf sixdy years ago.
They may dalk of anciendt hishdoryUnd for romantisch seek,De ding dat mofes most teeply ishOld-vashioned - not antique.O if you live in Leyden townYou'll meet, if troot' pe told,De forms of all de freunds who tiedVhen du werst six years old.
Oldt Flamisch.
HET vas Mijn Heer van Torenborg,Ride oud oopon de sand,Und vait to hear a paardeken;Coom tromplin from de land.He vaited vhen de boeren volkVent oud oopon de plain,He vaited dill de veary crowsFlew nestwarts home acain.
He vaited ash de wild fox vaitsIn long-some hoonger noth,He vaited dill de flitterin batsVere plack on Abendroth.Id's woe to watch for taily breadOr bide forgotten call,Boot oh, to vait for heartsen lofeIsh veariest of dem all.
"O dat ish not mine laity's proochShoost now so star-like shined,O dat ish not mine laity's haarSoft floatin on de wind.Her goot crayhound mit soosh a stepVas nefer vont to go,Und dat is niet her paardekenWhose shtep so vell I know.
"Dat light ish speer light from a lanzVitch'll part mine pody und soul,De floatin haar is a pennon gayOr wafin banderol.De crayhound ish a ploot-hound wildVitch long has dracked me here,Und het paardeken ish a var-horseVot has hoonted me like deer."
Well shpoke Mijn Heer van TorenborgAll drue vas afery wordt,For dey bored him troo mit lanzen,Und dey hewed him mit de swordt.Dey killt him armloss, harmlos;De plooty reiver band;Und puried him so carelooslyDat his vace shtick out de sand.
Boot e'er night's plack hat toorned to redOr e'er de stars vere gone,Dere came de shtep of a paardekenSoft tromplin, tromplin on.A laity fair climped off on himUnd trip mit dainty toes:-Boot oh, mijn Gott! - how she vas shkreemVen she trot on her drue lofe's nose!
"Oh vot ish dis I trots opon?Id's shape fool well I know,Dere nefer yet vas flower like dis,Dat in de garten crow.Dere nefer yet vas fruit like disAsh ripen on a dree;Het is Mijn Heer van TorenborgDat kan ik blainly see.
"Dat heerlijk nose, van Torenborg,Ish known of anciend dime,'Tis writ in olten chronikelUnd sung in minsdrel rhyme.Und dis, de noblest of de raceSince hishdory pegans,Ish shtickin here - shdraighdt out de dirt,Shoost like some boer manns.
"Oh cuss de man dat mordered him!Ach, cuss him oop and down,Ja - cuss him troo de forest roads,Und tamn him in de toun!Und burn his vater und moder,Vhere'er deir vootshteps vall,Mit his schwesters und his broders,De teufel rake dem all!
"May afery cuss dat e'er vas cusst,Since cussin foorst pegan;Pe hoorled in von drementous cuss,Acainsdt dat nasdy man!From de foorst crate cuss on Adam,To de smalles' of de crop"-Here de tead man gafe a shifer,Und gry oud - "For Gott's sake - shdop!
"Dere's a cerdain lot of shwearin,Vitch anger alvays crafes;Boot spite like dat's enof to pringDe tead men from deir craves.I can't lie here no longer,Und hear soosh pizen pain;Und since you've shtirred me out, I kessI'll coom to life acain."
Mit von drementous shkreem of pliss,His drue lofe shtood de shock,Den catcht him wildly py de nose,"Ach Torenborg - lev'st du nock!Ach ja - du aint'st nod tead yet!Dere's life shdill lef' pehind,Gott pless de dat lef' dy nose,Shdill wafin in de wind."
Mit hands all ofer diamonds,She loosed de sand apout,Mit an oyster-shell so wildlyShe digged her lofer out."Und now dou'rt in free air, lofe!Who warst shoost now in sand!Dere vasn't ish a nicer man,In all de Nederland!
Vhere vas dit liedeken written,Vhere vas dit liedeken sing,Dat had gedone Hans Breitmann,In de town of Schevening!'Tvas written ober Rheinwein,'Tvas written ober bier-Und wer das lied gesungen hat,Gott geb ihm ein glucklich's jahr.[59]
TO Amsterd-m came BreitmannAll in de Kermes tide;Yonge Maegden allegaderFilled de straat on afery side.De meisjes in de straatenVere tantzin alle nacht long;Dere vas kissen, dere vas trinken,Mit a roar of Holland song.
Who went into de straatenVen de sonn had gone his day,De Dootch gals quickly grapped himUnd tantzed him wild avay.Dere was der Prinz von Capua,Who fell among dese wags;Dey tantzed him off in a carmagnole,Und sent him home in rags.
Und den at afery gorner,So peaudifool to see,De volk vas bilin dough-nuts,Or else vas fryin tea.Und Kermes cakes mit boetry,Vitch land-volk dinks a dreat,Mit all of Barnum's blayed out showsIn dents along de shdreet.
Id pring de tears to Breitmann's eyes,To find in many a shtandVot oft he'd baid a quarder forTo see in a distand land.De Aztec dwins und de Siamese(Dough soom vere a wachsen sham);Mit de Beardet Frau und de Bear Woman-All here in Amsterdam
De fashion here in NederlandIsh not vot you'd soopose,Mit oos, men bays de vomens,Boot de Dootch gals hires deir beaux!Dey hire dem for de season,Und because moosh rain ish fell,Dey alvays bays a higher brice,For a man mit an umberell.
Und dere vas Nord Hollander maids,So woonderfool to see,Mit caps of gold und goldne pins,Und quaint orfeverie.Likewise de Zeeland Boersmen,Mit silber bootons gay;Und silber belts, und silber knives,Mijn Gott! - how sdrange vere dey!
But dough de men wore silber gear,Und de vrouws in gold were tall,De gals vere gabblin all de dimes,Und de men said noding at all."Dey say dat sbeech is silbern,Boot silence golden pe,Dat aint de vay dey vork id here,"Said Breitemann, said he.
Goot Gott! how Breitmann vent it,In moonlighdt or in rain;Den vakened to Schied-m it,Ven de mornin peamed again.For to solfe von awfool broplem,He vas efer shdill incline;If - den wijn is beter als de min,[60]Or - de min doet veel meer als de wijn.
Dwo weeks der Breitmann studiet,Vile he vent it on de howl.He shpree so moosh to find de troot,Dat he lookt like a bi-led owl.Den he say, "Ik wil honor Bacchus,So long as ik leven shall;Boot not so moosh vercierenAs to blace him ofer all.
De rose of lofe is lofelyIn zomer ven it plow;De bush shdill gifes a bromise,In winter mid de shnow;Ja, als de bloeme is geplukt,En van den steel genomen,[61]Ve know de peautiful vill life,Till zomer is gekomen.
Boot oh dose vas arch-heafenly dimes,Ven by mine lofe I sat;Und see de maedchen pring de grapes,Und crash dem in a vat.Und ven her glances unto mineIn plessfool ropture toorn;I dink dere ne'er vas no dwo crapesLike dem plue eyes of hern.
Wat is soeter als de trinken,[62]Ja - niet kan beter zyn.Niet is soeter as de minne,It smackt nog beter als wijn.Es giebt nichts wie die Madchen,Es gibt nichts wie das Bier,Wer liebt nicht alle beide,Wird gar kein Cavalier.
O vot ve vant to quickest comeIsh dat vot's soonest gone.Dis life ish boot a passin fromde efer-gomin-on.De gloser dat ve looks ad id,De shmaller it ish grow;Who goats und spurs mit lofe und wein,He makes it fastest go.
——-
HOW wunderschon das VaterlandIn audumn-life abbears;Vot rainpows gild ids vallies crand,Ven seen troo vallin tears.Und VON I'll creet mit sang und klang,Und drown in goldnen wein;Old Deutschland's cot her sohn again:Hans Breitmann's on der Rhein.
Und doughts ish schwell dat mighdy heart,Too awfool for make known;Ven dey shunt him from de railroat carUnd tropped him in Cologne.De holy towers of de domeCleam, twilicht-veiled, afar;Und like some lonely bilgrim's pipe,Dim shines de efenin star.
Hans look to find his baggage check,Und see dat all ish shdraighdts,Denn toorn him to de city toors,"Mein nadife land - wie gehts?"Boot dat's vot all who read may run-Fool blainly armies write;Id's ofer all half Shermany,Set down in Black and White.
Oh, Black and White! O Weiss and Schwarz!Vot dings ish dis to see?I vonder vot in future yearsYour mission ish to pe?Also in crate AmericaWe had soosh colors too!Die Farb' sind mir nicht unbekannt[63]-Id's shoost tout comme chez nous.
Next tay to de CathedralHe vent de dings to view,Und found it shoost drei thaler costTo see de sighds all troo."Id's tear," said Hans; "boot go ahet,I'fe cot de cash all right;Boot id's queer dat's only ProtestandsVot mosdly see de sighdt!
"Im Mittelalter I hafe readDe shoorsh vas alvays sure-An open bicdure gallerie,Und book for all de poor.Boot now de dings is so arrangeNo poor volk can get in;We Yankees und de Englisch arePout all ash shbends de tin.
"I shmiles like MephistophelesIn shoorshes ven I seePoor Catholics vollerin round apoutTo shdeal a sighdt - troo ME!Dey peep und creep roundt chapel gates,Boot soon kits trofe afay,Dey gross demselfs, und make a brayer-Boot den dey cannot bay!
"Dese Deutsche sacrisdans might learnMore goot in Italy,Where beoples bays shoost half de brice,For ten dimes more to see,De volk vot dink I shbeak sefereApout dese Kuster vays,May read vot Mr. BadekerIn his Belgine Hand Buch says."
Und valkin oop und town de downVon ding vas shdill de same:Shoost ash of oldt he saw de shpreadOf Jean Farina's name.He find it nort', he find it sout',He find it eferyvhere;Dere vas no house in all CologneBoot J. M. F. vas dere.[64]
De best Cologne in all CologneI'll shwear for cerdain sure,Ish maket in de JulichsplatzUnd dat at Numero Four.Boot of dis Cologne in JulichsplatzLet dis pe understood,Dat some of id ish foorst-rate pad,Vhile some is foorst-rate good.
Boot von ding drafellers moost opserve,Dis treadful trut I dells,Fast ash dis Farinaceous crowdSo vast hafe grown the schmells-Dose awfool schmells in gass' und strass'Vitch mofe crate Coleridge squalm:If so he wrote, vot vouldt he writeApout dem now, py tam?
Of all de schmells I efer schmelt,Py gutter, sink, or well,At efery gorner of CologneDere's von can peat dat schmell.Vhen dere you go you'll find it so,Don't dake de ding on troost;De meanest skunk in Yankee landVould die dere of disgoost.
Boot noding dinked der BreitmannOf schmutz or idle schein,Vhen he sat in AbendammerungUnd looket owd on der RheinIm goldnen gleam - vhile pealin farRang shlow, shveet kloster bells,Und in de dim, plue peaudiful,Rose distant Drachenfels.
Dey trinket lieb LiebfrauenmilchSo pure ash voman's trut';De singed de songs of Shermany,De songs of Breitmann's yout'.De songs mit tears of vanished years,Made peaudiful in wein.Dus endet out de firster tayOf Breitmann on der Rhein.
AM RHEIN. - No. II.
"Were diu werlt alle min,Von deme mere unze an den Rin.Des wolt ih mih darben,Daz diu dame von EngellantLege an minen armen."- Carmina Burana.
AM Rhein! Acain am Rheine!In boat oopon der Rhein!De castle-bergs soft goldnenIm Abendsonnenschein,Mit lots of Rudesheimer,Und saitenklang und sang,Und laties singin lieder,Ash ve go sailin 'long.
Und von fair Englisch dameVas dere, so wunderscheen;Vene'er der Breitmann saw her,Id made his heartsen pain.Oh, dose long-tailed veilchen Augen,Vitch voke soosh hopes und fears,Deir shape vas nod like almonds,Boot more like fallin tears.
Und shpecdagles were o'er dem,De glass of pince-nez kind,In mercy to de beoples,Less dey pe shdrucken blind.Und gazin in dem glasses,Reflected he peholdDe Rhine, mit all de shdeam-poats,Und crags in Sonnengold.
De signs upon de bier-haus;De gals a-washin close;De wein-garts on de moundain,Like heafenly shdairs in rows:De banks, basaltic-paven,Like bee-hife cells to view;A donkey shtandin on dem,Likevise her lofer too.
All dis oopon dos glassesVas blainly to pe seen;One saw whate'er vas nodiced,Py de schone Englandrinn.Boot oh! de fery lofe-mostOf all dat lofe-most peHer own plue veilchen Augen-Herself she couldt not see.
So ist es in dis Leben;For beaudy oft we spied,Nor know de cratest peaudyIsh in our soul inside.Mein Gott! Vot himmlisch shplendorVas seen mitout an toubt,If some crate bower supernalVas toorn oos insite out!
Und gazin long on Natur,Und gazin long on Man,Shdill all dings glite voruber,Ash since de vorldt pegan:Ash in dat laity's glasses,Ve see dem bassin py;Yet veel a soul beneat' dem,A schweet eternal eye.
O schone Englisch maidenMit honey-colored hair,Dat flows ash if a beinen korbHad got oopsettet dere-Und all de schweetness of your soulVas dripplin from your brain!Oh shall I efer meet mit dirOopon dis eart' acain?
O Englisch engel maiden!O schveet betaubend dofe!O Rheinwein und cigarren!O luncheon, mixed mit lofe!O Drachenfels und Nonnenwerth!O Liebeslust und pein!Dus ents de second chapterletOf Breitmann on der Rhein.
AM RHEIN. - No. III.
(Alt Deutsch.)
HE shtood peside de Kloster-place,Oopon de Rheinisch shore,Und dere he saw a lofely face,He'd seen in treams pefore.
"Feinslieb, und will'st dou go mit me?Feinsllieb, make no delay;For rocks ish shdeep und vales ish teep,Und dings ish in de way."
"Und oh! how can I go mit dir,Or flyen out of land?Der bischof holts me py de law,Der Rheingraf by der hand.
"Liebsherz, if dou could'st landwarts gehn,I'd follow willingly;Boot we are leafs, und shdrong's de shdemVitch pinds oos to de dree."
"Der briest who helt dee py de lawIsh now a broken man;Der Rheingraf who vouldt marry deeIsh in der Kaisar's ban.
"Und if de Kloster-beoples hereVill shdop your goin to town,Bei Gott! I'll burn von half of dem,De oder half I'll trown!
"Denn linger not to back dy drunk,Boot led our lofe hafe vings;Dere's milliners in fair Cologne,Vill make you avery dings."
She toorn her eyes im mondenschein,She schmile so heafenly;"Dear lofe, so shendle und so goot!I'll cut away mit dee.
"Und do not killl de Kloster-volk,'Tvouldt only bring tiscrace!Dough if I had de abbess here,Lort! how I'd slap her vace!"
De moonlighdt blayed oopon de drees,It shined oopon de blain,Two forms rode in de mitnight woods,Und nefer coomed again.
"Vot ish Art? Id ish somedings to drink, objectively foregebrought in de Beaudiful. Doubtest dou? - denn read, ash I hafe read, de Dyonisiacs of Nonnus, and learn dat de oopboorstin of infinite worlds into edernal Light und mad goldnen Lofeliness - yea of dein own soul - is typifide only py de CUP. Vot! - shdill skebdigal? Tell me denn, O dou of liddle fait, vere on eart ish de kunst obtain ids highest form if not in a BIERSTADT?[65] Ha! ha! I poke you dere!" - Caupo Recauponatus, MS. by Fritz Swackenhammer, olim candidatus theologiae at Tubingen, shoost now lagerbierwirth in St. Louis. (Dec. 1869.)
"Cerevisia bibunt hominesAnimalia ceterae fontes."
In a field of goldnen parleyGoot King Gambrinus shlept,Und treamin' pout de dursty volk,Dey say he gried und vept."In all mine land of Nederland,Dere crows no mead or wein,Und wasser I couldt nefer getIndo dis troat of mein.
"Now hear me on, ye headen gotts!Und all de Christian too;Der Bacchus und der Shoopider,Und Marie tressed in plue!Und mighdy Thor, der donner gott,Und any else dat be!Der von as helps me in dis Noth,His serfant I will pe."
Und ash dis sinfull headenAll in de parley lay,Dere coom in tream an angelWho soft dese worts tid say:"Stay oop, dou boor Gambrinus!For efen all aroundtIm parley vhere dou shleepest,Some dings goot to trink ish found.
"Im parley vhere dou shleepestDere hides a trink so clear,Dat men will know zukunftig-Ash porter- ale- or bier."Und denn in NederlandischHe put de konig troo,Und gafe him - allwhile treaming-De recipe to prew.
Oop rose der goot Gambrinus,Und shook him in de sun:"Go vay, ye sinfool headen gotts!Mit you its out und done!Ye'fe left me mit mine beoplesIn error und in durst,Till in our treadful tryness,Ve tont know vitch is wurst."
Dat vas der goot GambrinusOonto his palac't vent,Und loafers troo de NederlandTo all his lordts he sent."Leave Odin - or you lose your hets!"De order vas sefere,Yet tinged mit mildness, for he sentDe recipe for bier.
O den a merry sound vas heardtOf bildin troo de land,Und de kirchen und de braweriesVent oop on efery hand;For de masons dey vere hart at vork,Und trinkin hart at dat,Und some hat bricks mitin de hods,Und some mitin deir hat.
Dey prew it in de Nederland,Dey prew it on de Rhine;Boot in de oldt Bavarian land,Dey make it shdrong und fein.Und he dat trinks in Munich,Ash all goot vellers know,Has got somedings to dink apout,Vherefer he may go.
Hafe you heardt of Kong Gambrinus?If you hafen't id vas gueer,For he vas de first erfinderUnd de holy saint of bier.Und his bortrait, mit a sceptre,Fery peaudifool to see,Hangs on afery lager-bier house,In de land of Germanie.
Efery vhere de whole world ofer,Deutschers paint him on de sign,As a broof dat dey are dealinIn de Bok und Lager line.Crown und bier-mug, robe und ermine;German signs of empire, dese,Mit a long white beard a fallin'Fery nearly to his knees.
Vonce dis bier-saint, pright und early,Rose from bett und vent his vay,To a dark mysderious gastle,Vhere his lager-donjon lay.Vhile de lark's first song vas ringin',Und die roses shone in dew,Den his soul vas shoost in orderTo enshoy de early brew.
Deeply, awfooly he schwilled it,Till de vaults seem toornin round;Und vhile tipsy - over tips he-In he falls - und dere is trowned.Yet vhile goorglin in de bier-fass,Biously he gafe his soul:"Gott verdammich! Donnerwetter!Himmels sacrament-a-mol!"
Dere dey found der kong "departed,"Not mitout his stir-up cup:Moosh dey woonderd dat he berishetVhen he might hafe troonk it oop;Or dat his long peard vitch floatetFool a yard on efery side,Hadn't buoyed him from destrugdion:-Dus der beer-dead monarch died.FRANKFORT-ON-THE-MAIN.
"Sankt Martin war ein frommer MannTrank gerne Cerevisiam,Und hatt er kein PecuniamSo liess er seinen Tunicam."
(Comment by Herr Schwackenhammer.)
VONCE oopon a dimes in Frankfort der Herr Breitemann exsberiencet an interfal pedween de periot ven he hat gespent de last remiddance he hat become from home, und de arrifal of de succedin wechsel, or bill of exghange - und, in blain derms, was hard up. Derefore he vent to dat goot relation who may pe foundt at den or fifdeen per cent all de worlt ofer, - "mine Onkel," - und poot his tress-goat oop de shpout for den florins. No sooner vas dis done, dan dere coomed an infitation from de English laity in whom he vas so moosh mit lofe in betaken, to geh mit her to a ball-barty. Awful bad vas he veel, und sot apout tree hours mitout sayin nodings, und denn wafin his hand, boorst out mit de vollowin version of dat peaudiful lied by Wilhelm Caspary:-
"Mein Frack ist im Pfand-haus."
Mine tress-goat is shpouted, mine tress-goat aint hier,Vhile you in your ball-ropes go splurgin, mein tear!To barties mit you I'm infitet you know,Boot my pest coat ish shpouted - mine poots are no go.To hell mit mine Onkel - dat rasgally knafe!Dis pledgin und pawnin has mate me his slafe!Ven I dink of his sign-bost, den dree dimes I bawl,Vhile mine plack pants hang lonely und dark on de wall.
Goot night to dee fine lofe - so lofely und rich,Mein tress-goat ish shpouted - gon-fount efery stitch!I dinks dat olt Satan troo all mine affairs,Lofe, business, und fun, has peen sewin his tares.My tress-goat ish shpouted - mine tress-goat aint here,While you in your glorie go shinin, mein tear,Und de luck of der teufel ish loose ofer all,Vhile my black pants hang lonely und dark on de wall.
Dis four-goin song vas over-set by der Hans Breitmann from de German of Wilhelm Caspary, whose lyric vas a barody on a dranslation made indo Deutsch by Freiligrath from anoder boem py Sir Waldherr Scott, vitch Sir Waldherr vas kit de idee of from an oldt Scottish ballad vitch pegin mit de vorts-
"My hearts in de Hielands, mein hearts ish nae hier,Mein hearts in de Hielands, in wilden revier;It hoonts for de shtag, und id hunts for de reh,Mein hearts ist im Hochland wo immer ich geh."
Dis is de original Scotch, as goot as I can mineself rememper it. Ven I vas dell der Herr Karl Blind pout dis intercommixture of perplexified dransitions from Scotch to English, and dence into German, and dereafter into a barody, vitch vas be done ofer again indo Herr Breitmann's own slanguage, he sait it vas a Rattenkonig - a phrase too familiar to mine readers to require any wider complication.[66]
——-
DERE'S lighds oopon de Appian,Dey shine de road entlang;Und from ein hundert tombs dere brummsA wild Lateinisch song;It rings from Nero's goldnen haus;Evoe! - here he coom!Fly oud, ye moenads, from your craves!-Hans Breitmann's got to Rome!
For vhile de lamp holts oud to purn,Or von goot shpark ish dere,Dere's hope for all of dem whose livesIsh doun in Lempriere.Von real, shenuine heathenIs coom at last to home;Ye shleepin gotts, lift oop your hets-Hans Breitmann lifes in Rome!
Silenus mit der Hercules,Dere-to der Maia's sohn,Ish all unite in BreitmannTo make a stunnin one.Frau Venus mit de BacchanalsIst shmile to see him come;De Vesta only toorn her packVhen Breitmann kit to Rome.
He vented to de Vacuum,Vhere de Bope ish keep his bulls;Boot couldn't vind dem, dough he heardtDat all de blace vas fools.Dere ish here and dere some ochsen,Right manivest I see;Boot de bools all comes from Irish priests,Said Breitemann, said he.
Und goin' py de Vacuum,Und passin' troo de yard;Mein Gott! how vas he stoomple, vhenHe see der Schweitzer guard,Mit efery kinds of colors tresst,Like shtreamers in de van."Hans Wurst ist stets ein Deutscher g'west,"Das marked der Breitemann.
Und dus replied an guartsmann:-"I shoys to see you here:Ich bin dem Bapst sei Laibgaertner.Dazu a halberthier.Dis purpur kleid of yellow-plueVas made, ash I hafe heard,Py von Hans Michel Angelo,Der tailor of our guard.
"Ve're shoost von hoondert dirty strong,Ve list for twenty year;De serfice ist not pad, boot dis-Verdamm das Romisch bier!For ven mit birra gazzosaA maiden fills my glass,She might ash vell gife gift ash say-'Feinslieb, ich schenk dir dass!'"
Und dus rebly der Breitmann:-"Un Tedesco Italianazato,Ein Deutscher toorned Italian, ishIl diavolo in carnato.Your clothes are like infernal flames,Dey burn my fery soul;Boot to-night we'll trink togedder - nunLieb'landsmann lebe wohl!"
At de Sherman artisds' festa,Vhere all vas pright und fair,'Tvas fairer und more prighterfullVhen Breitmann enter dere.Und der vaiters in de Greco(So long he trinked und sot)Vas called him L'Ubbriacone-'Tvas de name der Breitmann got.
He saw a veller in de shtreet,Vot sell some friction-matches;De kind dey call Infallible,For dey blazes ven you scratches.Dey dragged him off to brison,Und tied him mit a rope;For in Rome dere's nix Infallible,Dey said, excebt de Bope.
Hans see de crate Prometheus,In Corsini's gallery hang;He tought apout de matches,Und it made his heart go bang.It's risk to carry light apout,Too cheap for efery man;How de Lucifers is fallen![67]Ita dixit Breitmann.
He got among de Bope's Zouaves,Dey trinked from morn to night;Den frolicked colle belleOntil de shky crew pright.It blease der Breitmann vonderfool,And dus he often say:"Zouaviter in modo ishDer real Roman way."
Boot oh, his heart burned vild mit fire,His eyes gefilled mit tears,At de gotts in efery bilder saal,Mit goats' legs, tails, und ears.Und he sopped - "Ach liebes Deutschland,Bist here on every hand?Was machst du MephistophelesSo weit im Walschen Land?"
Boot de wood-nymphs boorst out laughin,Der Garten-gott dere to,Und sait - "Oldt Hans! vile you're apoutVe nefer can look blue."Den Pan blay on his Syrinx,To de tune of Mary Blane,"Don't gry pecause ve're out of town,Ve're coming pack again.
"Von day you got de yolk und vhite,De next day only shells;Von day dey holts a council,Und de next day - 'someding else!'Id's bopes und kings, und gotts and dings,Oopon dis eartly ball;Boot for me id's all von frolic,Und a high oldt carnival!
"Rise oop, dou Odin-trafeler,Und toorn dee to de Nort,Wherefrom, as Bible dells dee,Crate efil shall come fort.Dere is mutterins in Ravenna,Und ere long dere'll come a turn,A real hell-bender from de landOf Dieterich von Bern.
"Und ven der Breitmann's prototype,Der Fictoor Manuel,Cooms tromplin, tromplin troo de fern,To give dis coontry hell.Und ven in La Comarca,Der is shtorm all in de air,Dy Gotts vill gife dee vork, mein Sohn,Hans Breitmann shall be dere!"
For a yar will nod be oferPefore de Frantsch will run,Und de game at last be ented,Und Italy pe won.Und denn in roarin battle,For hishtory so grand,Dy banner'll lead de Uhlan spears,All in de Frankenland.
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Nota bene. - Dis boem was all written in 1869, pefore de wars; und all de dings prophezeit in it coomed to bass. Herein der Herr Breitmann abbears ash a Seher or Prophet so crate as de cratest ash nefer vas. Der crate ardist, Mishter W. W. Story, for whom dis lied vas written, can proof all dis. FRITZ SCHWACKENHAMMER. [Redaktor.]
"Robusti sono i fatti."- Discorso del Terremoto,del S. Alessandro Sardo.Venetia, A.D. 1586.
IN San Gianni Lateran,Dey've cot a flight of shdairs,More woonderful ash nefer vas,As Latin pooks declares.For you kits your sins forgifen,If you glimes dem knee py knee;It's such a gitten up a stairs,I nefer yet did see.
Now as Breitmann vas a vaitinAmong some demi reps,Ascensionem expectans,To see dem glime de steps,Dere came a sinful scoffer,Who his mind had firmly setTo go dem holy sdairs afoot,Und do it on a bet!
Boot shoost as he vas startet,To make dis sassy go,Der Breitmann caught him py de neck,Und tripped him off his toe!Und den dere come de skience,A la prenez gardez vous;For he bung his eye and bust his shell,Und shplit his noshe in dwo.
De briests vere so astonish,To see him lam de man,Dat dey shvore a holy miracleVas vork by Breitemann.Says Breitmann, "I'm a heretic,But dis you may pe bound,No chap shall mock relishious dingsVhile I'm a bummin round.
"Und you owes me really noding,For as I'll plainly show,At last I've found out somedingVot I alfays vant to know.Und now dat I have found it,In de newspapers I'll brag:Evviva! Ho trovato,Vot means a Scala-Wag."[68]
"Altri beva il Falerno, altri la Tolfa. . . . . . . . .
Toscana re, ditePra ch'io parli dite."- Bacco in Toscano,di Francisco Redi.
"Si regressum feci metroRetro ante, ante retro-Quid si graves sunt acuti?Si accentus fiant muti?Quid si placide, plene, planeFregi frontem Prisciani?-Sat est Verbum declinaviTitubo-titubas-titubavi."- Barnabae Itinerarium. London, 1716.
VON efenin ash der Breitmann vent from his weinhaus vinkin,So peepy mit Falernian vitch he vas starkly trinkin,He found his hut and goat was gone, - dey'd dook em oud for dryin,-Und in deir blace a priester hut und priester mantel lyin.
Der Breitmann poot de triangel oopon his het, and whistled,Den rop de cloak around his form, and down de Corso mizzled.De beoples gazed mit staunischment as bey dem he go vheelin,He look ganz oltra tramontane, so twisty vas his reelin.
Next tay in Vaticano, while he shtared at frescoes o'er him,Hans toorned und mit amazemend saw der Pabst vas shoost pefore him!Down on his knees der Breitmann vent - for so de law it teaches;He proke two holes in de bavement - und likevise shblithis preeches.
"Ego video," says de Bope - "tu es antistes ex Almania,Est una mala gente et corrupta con insania,Un fons hereticorum et malorum tut terrible,Perche non vultis che ego - il Papa - sei infallibile."
"Sit verbo venia," said Hans, "permitte, Sancte Pater,Num verum est ut noster rum gemixta est mit water?In coelis wo die gotter live, non semper est sereno,Nor de wein ash goot ash decet in each spaccio di vino.
"Sunt mihi multi fratres qui si denkunt ut dicisti,Ego kickerem illos, valide, per sanguine de Christi!In nostro monasterio si habemus nostrum rentumContra infallibilita non curamus rubrum centrum.[69]
"Viginti nostrorum nuper convenere,In quondam capitulo, simul et dixere;Papa vult Concilium in Romam tenere,Quid debemus super hoc ipsi respondere?"[70]
Et dixit noster presul, "Es ist mir omnis unus,Si Papa est infallibilis, tanquam non sum jejunus,Si nonus est Pius aut Pius est Nonus-Diabolis curat. Non accipio dieser onus.
"Si possum me jacere circum vitrum Rhenovini[71]Es ist mir wurst si Papa est originis divini:Deus se fecit olim homo, et nahm dis irds'che Leben,[72]Et nunc Papa noster will sich selbst zum Gott erheben.
"Ita dixit Breitmann et sanctus Pater respondit:Me piace semper intendere tutto cio che l'on dit,Sed tu dic mihi la sua ragione:Tu non homo natus es, solus mangiar maccheroni.
"Tonitrus et cespes!" dixit Johanes Breitmann."Si veritatem cupies, tunc ego sum der right man;Percute semper ferrum dum caldum est et malleable,Nunc est tuum tempus te facere infallible.
"In nostra America quum Praeses decet abire,Die ultimo fecit omne quod posset imaginire.Appointet ambasciatores et post-magistros,Consules et alios, per dextros et sinistros.
"Quum Rex Bomba ista Neapolit-anus,Compulsus fuit to shin it - ut dixit Africanus-Fecit ultimo die ducos et countos, vanus.(Inter alios M'Closkey, tuus Hibernicus chanberlanus.)[73]
"Et quia tu es; ut credo; ultimus Poporum,Facis bene devenire, quod dicitur High Cockalorum-Sei magnissimus toad in the puddle, ite caput, magnamente;Et ERITIS SICUT DEUS, nemine contradicente!
"Unus error solus, Sancte Pater commisisti.Quia primus infallible non te proclamavisti,Nam nemo audet dicere: Papa fecit quod non est bonus.Decet semper jactare super alios probandi onus.
'Conceptio Immaculata, hoc modo fixisti,Et nemo audet dicere unum verbum, de isti:Non vides si infallibilis es, et vultis es exdare,[74]Non alius sed tu solus hanc debet proclamare."
"Figlio mio," dixit Papa; "Tu es homo mirabilis,Tua verba sunt mi dulcior quam ostriche cum ChablisIn tutta Roma, de Alemania gente,Non ho visto uno con si grande mente.
"Vero benedetto es - eris benedictus,Tibi mitterem photographiam in quo sum depictus.Tu comprendes situatio - il punto et gravamen.Sunt pauci clerici ut te. Nunc dico tibi. - Amen!"
"Uns ist in alten Maerenwunders viel geseitVon Helden lobebaeren,von grosser Arebeit.Von Festen und Hochzeiten,von Weinen und Klagen,Von kuehnen Recken Streiten,moht Ihr nun Wunder horen sagen."- Der Nibelungen Lied.
DO oos, in anciend shdory,Crate voonders ish peen toldOf lapors fool of glory,Of heroes bluff und bold;Of high oldt times a-kitin,Of howlin und of tears,Of kissin and of vightin,All dis we likes to hears.
Dere growed once dimes in Schwaben,Since fifty years pegan,An shild of decend elders,His name Hans Breitemann.De gross adfentures dat he had,If you will only look,Ish all bescribed so trulyIn dis fore-lyin book.
Und allaweil dese liederVere goin troo his het,De writer lay von Sonntaya-shleepin in his bett;Vhen, lo! a yellow bigeonCoom to him in a dream,De same dat Mr. BarnumVonce had in his Museum.
Und dus out-shprach de bigeon:"If you should brint de songsOr oder dings of BreitmannVhich to dem on-belongs,Dey will tread de road of Sturm and Drang,Die wile es mohte leben,[75]Und be mis-geborn in pattle-To dis fate ish it ergeben."
Und dus rebly de dreamer:"If on de ice it shlip,Denn led id dake ids shanses,Rip Sam, und let 'er rip!Dou say'st id vill pe sturmy:Vot sturmy ish, ish crand,Crates heroes ish de beoplesIn Uncle Samuel's land.
"Du bist ein rechter Gelbschnabel,[76]O golden bigeon mine,Und I'll fighdt id on dis summer,If id dakes me all dis line.Full liddle ish de discount,Oopon de Yankee peeps.""Go to hell!" exglaim de bigeon;Foreby vas all mine shleeps.
Dere vent to Sout CarolinaA shentleman who dinked,[77]Dat te pallads of der BreitmannShould papered pe und inked.Und dat he vouldt fixed de brintinBefore de writer know:Dis make to many a brinter,Fool many a bitter woe.
All in de down of Charleston,A druckerei he found,Where dey cut de copy into takesUnd sorted it around.Und all vas goot peginnen,For no man heeded mooch.Dat half de jours vas MericansUnd half of dem vas Dutch.
Und vorser shtill, anoder halfHad vorn de Federal plue,Vhile de anti-half in Davis greyHad peen Confeterates true.Great Himmel! vot a shindyVas shdarted in de crowd,Vhen some von read Hans Breitmann,His Barty all aloud!
Und von goot-nadured Yankee,He schwear id vos a shame,To dell soosh lies on Dutchmen,Und make of dem a game.Boot dis make mad Fritz Luder,Und he schwear dis treat of Hans,Vos shoost so goot a bartyAsh any oder man's.
Und dat nodings vas so loosciousIn all dis eartly shpeer,Ash a quart mug fool of sauer-kraut,Mit a plate of lager-bier.Dat de Yankee might pe tam mit himself,For he, der Fritz, hafe peen,In many soosh a bartyUnd all dose dings hafe seen.
All mad oopsproong de Yankee,Mit all his passion ripe;Und vired at Fritz mit de shootin-shtick,Vheremit he vas fixin type.It hit him on de occupit,Und laid him on de floor;For many a long day afderI ween his het was sore.
Dis roused Piet Weiser der Pfaelzer,Who vas quick to act und dink;He helt in hand a rollerVheremit he vas rollin ink.Und he dake his broof py shtrikinDer Merican top of his het,Und make soosh a vine impression,Dat he left de veller for deat.
Allaweil dese dings oonfolded,Dere vas rows of anoder kind,Und drople in de wigwamEnough to trife dem plind.Und a crate six-vooted Soudern manVot hafe vorked on a Refiew,Shvear he hope to Gott he mighd pie de formsIf de Breitmann's book warn't true.
For de Sout' vas ploundered derriple,Und in dat darksome hourHe hafe lossed a yallow-pine maiden,Of all de land de vlower.Bright gold doublones a hoonderedFor her he'd gladly bayAsh soon ash a thrip for a ginger-cake,Und deem it cheap dat day.
To him antworded a YorkerWho shoomp den dimes de boun-ti-ee:(De only dings he lossed in de warWas a sense of broperty.)Says he, "Votefer you hafe droppedSome oder shap hafe get,Und de yallow-pine liked him petter ash you,On dat it is safe to bet!"
Dead pale pecame dat Soudern brave,He tidn't so moosh as yell,Boot he drop right on to de Yorker,Und mit von lick bust his shell.Denn out he flashed his pig-sticker,Und mit looks of drementous gloom,Rooshed vildly in de pattleDat vas ragin round de room.
Boot in angulo, in de corner-Anoder quarrel vas grow'Twix a Boston shap mit a Londoner;Und de row ish gekommen so:De Yankee say dat de H-u-morOf soosh writin vas less dan small,Dough it maket de beoples laughen,Boot dat vas only all.
Denn a Deutscher say, by Donner!Dat soosh a baradoxVould leafe no hope for writersIn all Pandora's baender box.'Twas like de sayin dat HeineHafe no witz in him goot or bad,Boot he only kept sayin witty dingsTo make beoples pelieve he had.
Denn de oder veller be-headedDat dere vas not a shbark of foonIn de pad spelt lieds when you lead demInto Englisch correctly done:-Den a Proof Sheet veller respondered,For he dink de dings vas hard,"Dat ish shoost like de goot oldt ladyAsh vent to hear Artemus Ward.
"Und say it vas shames de beoplesVas laugh demselfs most teadAt de boor young veller lecturin,Vhen he tidn't know vot he said."Hereauf de Yankee answered,"Gaul dern it:- Shtop your fuss!"And all de crowd togederGo slap in a grand plug-muss.
De Yankee shlog de Proof SheetSoosh an awfool smock on de face,Dat he shvell right oop like a poonkinMit a sense of his tisgrace;Boot der Deutscher boosted an ink-kegOn dop of de oder's hair:It vly troo de air like a boomshell - denn-Mine Gotts! - Vot a sighdt vas dere!
Denn ofer all de shapelVierce war vas ragin loose;Fool many a vighten brinterGot well ge-gooked his goose.Fool many a nose mit fisten,I ween was padly scrouged;Fool many an eye pright gleaminVas ploody out-gegouged.
Do wart ufgehouwen,[78]Dere vas hewin off of pones;Do horte man darinneMan heardt soosh treadful croans.Jach waren da die Geste,De row vas rough and tough,Genuoge sluogen wunden-Dere vas plooty wounds enough.
De souls of anciend brintersFrom Himmel look down oopon,Und allowed dat in a chapelDere was nefer soosh carryins on.Dere was Lorenz Coster mit Gutemberg,Und Scheffer mit der Fust,Und Sweynheim mit Pannartz trop deers,Oopon dis teufel's dust.
Dere vas Yankee jours extinctedWho lay upon de vloor,Dere vas Soudern rebs destructed,Who vouldt nefer Jeff no more.Ash deir souls rise oop to Heafen,Dey heardt de oldt brinters' calls,Und Gutemberg gifed dem all a kickAsh he histed dem ofer de walls.
Dat ish de vay dese BalladsFoorst vere crooshed in ploot and shdorm,Fool many a day moost bass afayPefore dey dook dis form.De copy flootered o'er de preastsOf heroes lyin todt,Dis vas de dire peginnin-Das war des Breitmann's Noth.
Dis song in PhiladelphiaLong dimes ago pegun,In Paris vas gondinued, undIn Dresden ist full-done.If any toubt apout de facts,In nople minds ish grew,Let dem ashk Carl Benson Bristed,He knows id all ish drue.
Und now, dese Breitmann shdoriesIn gebrindt in many a lant,Sogar in far AustraliaDey're gestohlen und bekannt:-"Geh hin mein Puch in alle VVeltSteh auss was dir kompt zu!Man beysse Dich, man reysse DichNur dass man mir nichts thu!"[79]
DERR BREITMANN hear im TurkenreichVas fighten high und low,"Steh auf, oh Schwackenhammer mein!It's dime for us to go.Zieh dein Kanonenstiefel an,Und schleife Dir das Schwert,Schon lang her han mer nichts gethan,Der Weg ist reitenswerth."[80]
"Oopon vitch side? I hartly knowBoot von side in dis war:Dere ist de holy Russ-landAll mit a holy Tsar;But I pe not a holy-er,Nor you von Saint, I fear;Out line is holy ploonder,Mit sacred Lager-bier.
"Dere's von Constantinoble-manVot write to me, und sayHe kits me an commissionTo make me Breitmann Bey,Und if I mounts de turpanUnd keeps de Muslin law,Und bribes ein wenig, den I riseTo Breitemann Pasha.
"Dis much is drue, dat Toorkey isA real Powder land,Und if dey're goin' to touch it off,Vy, ve moost pe on hand.Und if ve shpring into de airsVhile meddlin' in de fuss,I rader dink some Russian bearsVill shpring along mit us."
Und ven he kit to TurkreichDer Breitmann work like mad,Und kit ein corps togeder,-Mein Gott! vat men he had!Mit Polers und mit Shipsies,Ungaren, Turks, und such,Und allerlei Gesindel. "Hei!"Says Hans: "dis beats de Dutch!"
Den onwards to his Schicksal[81]Und forvarts troo de night,Und oopwarts to his mission,Und downvarts in de vight.Until in de BulgarenVon night his horse he strode,Und meet a tausand KossacksPefore him on de road.
Slap forward rode der BreitmannRight on de Kossack spears,But forvarts coom deir leaderAnd halted his careers,Und gry, "O Turkisch Ritter,I am de Capitan,And if you want a shindy,Step up, and I'm your man."
Dey fightet like der teufel,Dey fightet mit deir swords,Und Breitmann vould hafe kilt him,But 'twas not on de cards,For de Kossack fire a bistolAs his retreadt pegan,-Down from his horse all senselessFlop! went der Breitemann.
Vhen he hafe kit his senses,Der Breitmann find he layInsite a nople castell,Upon a canape;Und py his side a ladySo wunderschon to see,Vas shlisin oop a lemonIndo a cop of thee.
Den to himself say Breitmann,Aldough he hold his jaw,"Dis is de vinest womans,Py Gott! I efer saw.Vot lofeliness! vot muscle!Mit efery himmlisch charm!She measures twenty inches,Bei Donner! roundt de arm."
De lady see his glancesSo noble und so game,Und yust as he reflectedShe dink of him de same,Und she say, "Wie gehts?" in English,"Du galiant cavalier,Who art pecome de captiveAll of my bow und spear.
"I am a gal dis mornin',Yestreen I vas a knight,Old hoss - you nearly smashedme,I guess, in that small fight;And if I hadn't shot youI think I should have ran.""Gottshimmel mit Potzbomben!Egsclaim der Breitemann.
"But say, O nople lady,Vot got you in dot setOf plackgards - vilt dou dell me?"De dame rebly: "You bet!My father came from Boston,And when this war beganHe got a splendid contract,All with the Russi-an,
"To sell the army shoe-strings;But I have read of fights,And I dream of war and glory,For I go for women's rights;Then I read a book of poemsWhich fairly turned my head,The ballads of Hans Breitmann"—"Oh —- ho!" Hans Breitmann said.
"And as I think the BreitmannMust be the greatest manWho ever went a-fightingSince History began,I dressed me like a soldier,For I am stark of limb;With Breitmann for a model,And try to act like him.
"Oh, tell me, noble captive,While rolling in this stormWhich men call life, hast everBeheld Hans Breitmann's form?Oh, could I once embrace him,And gaze into his eye,And feel his arms around me,Then I would gladly die.
"He is the man of mortals,The Odin of them all,A higher Incarnation,The 'Menschheitsideal,'[82]A being made to worship,To me an earthly Gott"—"Py shings!" exglaim Hans Breitmann,"Dis ding is gettin hot!
"O laity! - nople gountess!Dis man of whom you dinkIsh lyin' here pefore you,Half tead for want of trink,Likewise for lofe of you, too,Done up mit lofe and durst,Und mit de two togeder,I don't know vitch is vorst.
"And dou canst safe dy heroFrom bitter Todespein,If dou hast in de KellerOnly one Fass of wein.Nay, doubt not - in my pocketIs dot vitch brofes de man,My bassport, und drei tavern billsAgainst der Breitemann."
De laity she emprace himOontil he nearly bust."Potz-blitz!" gasp out der Breitmann,"She is a squeezer - yust!"De dame she vas vealty,Likewise an orphan too,Mit a castel und a titel,So Breitmann put it troo.
So soon the paar vere marrit,-Hei! vot a dimes dey had!Hei! how dey life togederSo clorious und clad!Now he has cot a titelDot was a Capitan;Hier hat de tale ein EndeOf Herr Count Breitemann.
ICH bin ein Deutscher, und mein name is Cobus Hagelstein,[83]I coom from Cincinnati, and I life peyond der Rhein;Und I dells you all a shdory dot makes me mad ash blitz,Pout how a Yankee gompany vas shvindle me to fits.
I heardt apout dis gompany, und vished to see dot same,Das Lebensfeuerversicherunggesellschaft vos ids name;Dot is de name in Sherman - in English it will sayDot it insures your life mit fire, ven you de money pay.
Now, I hod a liddle house-line vhere I life so shtill ash mice,Und yoost drei tausand dollar vos dot little pilding's brice;I vos always yoost so happy ash ein Kaisar in de landDill at last I kit in drople, for mein haus vas abgebrannt.
Den I goes undo dot gompany und dells em right afay(Das Lebensfeuerversicherunggesellschaft), und I say,"At last de youngest day ist coom for you to plank de cash,And you moost bay me monies, for mine haus is purned to ash."