Sir Olave, ’tis the midnight hour,Thy days of life are number’d;In a king’s daughter’s arms insteadThou thoughtest to have slumber’d.The monks they mutter the prayers for the dead,The man the red coat wearingAlready before the black block stands,His polish’d hatchet bearing.Sir Olave descends to the court below,Where the swords and the lights are gleaming;The ruddy lips of the Knight they smile,And he speaks with a countenance beaming:“I bless the sun, and I bless the moon,“And the stars in the heavens before me;“I bless too the little birds that sing“In the air so merrily o’er me.“I bless the sea and I bless the land,“And the flow’rs that the meadow’s life are;“I bless the violets, which are as soft“As the eyes of my own dear wife are.“Ye violet eyes of my own dear wife,“My life for your sakes I surrender!“I bless the elder-tree, under whose shade“We plighted our vows of love tender.”
Sir Olave, ’tis the midnight hour,Thy days of life are number’d;In a king’s daughter’s arms insteadThou thoughtest to have slumber’d.The monks they mutter the prayers for the dead,The man the red coat wearingAlready before the black block stands,His polish’d hatchet bearing.Sir Olave descends to the court below,Where the swords and the lights are gleaming;The ruddy lips of the Knight they smile,And he speaks with a countenance beaming:“I bless the sun, and I bless the moon,“And the stars in the heavens before me;“I bless too the little birds that sing“In the air so merrily o’er me.“I bless the sea and I bless the land,“And the flow’rs that the meadow’s life are;“I bless the violets, which are as soft“As the eyes of my own dear wife are.“Ye violet eyes of my own dear wife,“My life for your sakes I surrender!“I bless the elder-tree, under whose shade“We plighted our vows of love tender.”
Sir Olave, ’tis the midnight hour,Thy days of life are number’d;In a king’s daughter’s arms insteadThou thoughtest to have slumber’d.
The monks they mutter the prayers for the dead,The man the red coat wearingAlready before the black block stands,His polish’d hatchet bearing.
Sir Olave descends to the court below,Where the swords and the lights are gleaming;The ruddy lips of the Knight they smile,And he speaks with a countenance beaming:
“I bless the sun, and I bless the moon,“And the stars in the heavens before me;“I bless too the little birds that sing“In the air so merrily o’er me.
“I bless the sea and I bless the land,“And the flow’rs that the meadow’s life are;“I bless the violets, which are as soft“As the eyes of my own dear wife are.
“Ye violet eyes of my own dear wife,“My life for your sakes I surrender!“I bless the elder-tree, under whose shade“We plighted our vows of love tender.”
The waves were plashing against the lone strand,The moon had risen lately,The knight was lying upon the white sand,In vision musing greatly.The beauteous nymphs arose from the deep,Their veils around them floated;They softly approach’d, and fancied that sleepThe youth’s repose denoted.The plume of his helmet the first one felt,To see if perchance it would harm her;The second took hold of his shoulder belt,And handled his heavy chain armour.The third one laugh’d, and her eyes gleam’d bright,As the sword from the scabbard drew she;On the bare sword leaning, she gazed on the knight,And heartfelt pleasure knew she.The fourth one danced both here and there,And breath’d from her inmost bosom:“O would that I thy mistress were,“Thou lovely mortal blossom!”The fifth her kisses with passionate strengthOn the hand of the knight kept planting;The sixth one tarried, and kissed at lengthHis lips and his cheeks enchanting.The knight was wise, and far too discreetTo open his eyes midst such blisses;He let the fair nymphs in the moonlight sweetContinue their loving kisses.
The waves were plashing against the lone strand,The moon had risen lately,The knight was lying upon the white sand,In vision musing greatly.The beauteous nymphs arose from the deep,Their veils around them floated;They softly approach’d, and fancied that sleepThe youth’s repose denoted.The plume of his helmet the first one felt,To see if perchance it would harm her;The second took hold of his shoulder belt,And handled his heavy chain armour.The third one laugh’d, and her eyes gleam’d bright,As the sword from the scabbard drew she;On the bare sword leaning, she gazed on the knight,And heartfelt pleasure knew she.The fourth one danced both here and there,And breath’d from her inmost bosom:“O would that I thy mistress were,“Thou lovely mortal blossom!”The fifth her kisses with passionate strengthOn the hand of the knight kept planting;The sixth one tarried, and kissed at lengthHis lips and his cheeks enchanting.The knight was wise, and far too discreetTo open his eyes midst such blisses;He let the fair nymphs in the moonlight sweetContinue their loving kisses.
The waves were plashing against the lone strand,The moon had risen lately,The knight was lying upon the white sand,In vision musing greatly.
The beauteous nymphs arose from the deep,Their veils around them floated;They softly approach’d, and fancied that sleepThe youth’s repose denoted.
The plume of his helmet the first one felt,To see if perchance it would harm her;The second took hold of his shoulder belt,And handled his heavy chain armour.
The third one laugh’d, and her eyes gleam’d bright,As the sword from the scabbard drew she;On the bare sword leaning, she gazed on the knight,And heartfelt pleasure knew she.
The fourth one danced both here and there,And breath’d from her inmost bosom:“O would that I thy mistress were,“Thou lovely mortal blossom!”
The fifth her kisses with passionate strengthOn the hand of the knight kept planting;The sixth one tarried, and kissed at lengthHis lips and his cheeks enchanting.
The knight was wise, and far too discreetTo open his eyes midst such blisses;He let the fair nymphs in the moonlight sweetContinue their loving kisses.
A noble pride on every feature,His forehead stamp’d with thought mature,He could subdue each mortal creature,Bertrand de Born, the troubadour.How wondrously his sweet notes caught her,Plantagenet the Lion’s queen!Both sons as well as lovely daughterHe sang into his net, I ween.The father too he fool’d discreetly!Hush’d was the monarch’s wrath and scornOn hearing him discourse so sweetly,The troubadour, Bertrand de Born.
A noble pride on every feature,His forehead stamp’d with thought mature,He could subdue each mortal creature,Bertrand de Born, the troubadour.How wondrously his sweet notes caught her,Plantagenet the Lion’s queen!Both sons as well as lovely daughterHe sang into his net, I ween.The father too he fool’d discreetly!Hush’d was the monarch’s wrath and scornOn hearing him discourse so sweetly,The troubadour, Bertrand de Born.
A noble pride on every feature,His forehead stamp’d with thought mature,He could subdue each mortal creature,Bertrand de Born, the troubadour.
How wondrously his sweet notes caught her,Plantagenet the Lion’s queen!Both sons as well as lovely daughterHe sang into his net, I ween.
The father too he fool’d discreetly!Hush’d was the monarch’s wrath and scornOn hearing him discourse so sweetly,The troubadour, Bertrand de Born.
The waters glisten and merrily glide,—How lovely is love midst spring’s splendour!The shepherdess sits by the streamlet’s side,And twines her garlands so tender.All nature is budding with fragrant perfume,How lovely is love midst spring’s splendour!The shepherdess sighs from her heart: “O to whom“Shall I my garlands surrender?”A horseman is riding beside the clear brook,A kindly greeting he utters;The shepherdess views him with sorrowful look,The plume in his hat gaily flutters.She weeps and into the gliding waves flingsHer flowery garlands so tender;Of kisses and love the nightingale sings—How lovely is love midst spring’s splendour!
The waters glisten and merrily glide,—How lovely is love midst spring’s splendour!The shepherdess sits by the streamlet’s side,And twines her garlands so tender.All nature is budding with fragrant perfume,How lovely is love midst spring’s splendour!The shepherdess sighs from her heart: “O to whom“Shall I my garlands surrender?”A horseman is riding beside the clear brook,A kindly greeting he utters;The shepherdess views him with sorrowful look,The plume in his hat gaily flutters.She weeps and into the gliding waves flingsHer flowery garlands so tender;Of kisses and love the nightingale sings—How lovely is love midst spring’s splendour!
The waters glisten and merrily glide,—How lovely is love midst spring’s splendour!The shepherdess sits by the streamlet’s side,And twines her garlands so tender.
All nature is budding with fragrant perfume,How lovely is love midst spring’s splendour!The shepherdess sighs from her heart: “O to whom“Shall I my garlands surrender?”
A horseman is riding beside the clear brook,A kindly greeting he utters;The shepherdess views him with sorrowful look,The plume in his hat gaily flutters.
She weeps and into the gliding waves flingsHer flowery garlands so tender;Of kisses and love the nightingale sings—How lovely is love midst spring’s splendour!
Ali Bey, the true Faith’s hero,Happy lies in maids’ embraces;Allah granteth him a foretasteHere on earth of heavenly rapture.Odalisques, as fair as houris,Like gazelles in every motion—While the first his beard is curling,See, the second smoothes his forehead.And the third the lute is playing,Singing, dancing, and with laughterKissing him upon his bosom,Where the flames of bliss are glowing.But the trumpets of a suddenSound outside, the swords are rattling,Calls to arms, and shots of muskets—Lord, the Franks are marching on us!And the hero mounts his war-steed,Joins the fight, but seems still dreaming;For he fancies he is lyingAs before in maids’ embraces.Whilst the heads of the invadersHe is cutting off by dozens,He is smiling like a lover,Yes, he softly smiles and gently.
Ali Bey, the true Faith’s hero,Happy lies in maids’ embraces;Allah granteth him a foretasteHere on earth of heavenly rapture.Odalisques, as fair as houris,Like gazelles in every motion—While the first his beard is curling,See, the second smoothes his forehead.And the third the lute is playing,Singing, dancing, and with laughterKissing him upon his bosom,Where the flames of bliss are glowing.But the trumpets of a suddenSound outside, the swords are rattling,Calls to arms, and shots of muskets—Lord, the Franks are marching on us!And the hero mounts his war-steed,Joins the fight, but seems still dreaming;For he fancies he is lyingAs before in maids’ embraces.Whilst the heads of the invadersHe is cutting off by dozens,He is smiling like a lover,Yes, he softly smiles and gently.
Ali Bey, the true Faith’s hero,Happy lies in maids’ embraces;Allah granteth him a foretasteHere on earth of heavenly rapture.
Odalisques, as fair as houris,Like gazelles in every motion—While the first his beard is curling,See, the second smoothes his forehead.
And the third the lute is playing,Singing, dancing, and with laughterKissing him upon his bosom,Where the flames of bliss are glowing.
But the trumpets of a suddenSound outside, the swords are rattling,Calls to arms, and shots of muskets—Lord, the Franks are marching on us!
And the hero mounts his war-steed,Joins the fight, but seems still dreaming;For he fancies he is lyingAs before in maids’ embraces.
Whilst the heads of the invadersHe is cutting off by dozens,He is smiling like a lover,Yes, he softly smiles and gently.
In her hand the little lamp, andMighty passion in her breast,Psyche creepeth to the couch whereHer dear sleeper takes his rest.How she blushes, how she trembles,When his beauty she descries!He, the God of love, unveil’d thus,Soon awakes and quickly flies.Eighteen hundred years’ repentance!And the poor thing nearly died!Psyche fasts and whips herself still,For she Amor naked spied.
In her hand the little lamp, andMighty passion in her breast,Psyche creepeth to the couch whereHer dear sleeper takes his rest.How she blushes, how she trembles,When his beauty she descries!He, the God of love, unveil’d thus,Soon awakes and quickly flies.Eighteen hundred years’ repentance!And the poor thing nearly died!Psyche fasts and whips herself still,For she Amor naked spied.
In her hand the little lamp, andMighty passion in her breast,Psyche creepeth to the couch whereHer dear sleeper takes his rest.
How she blushes, how she trembles,When his beauty she descries!He, the God of love, unveil’d thus,Soon awakes and quickly flies.
Eighteen hundred years’ repentance!And the poor thing nearly died!Psyche fasts and whips herself still,For she Amor naked spied.
Every day I have a meetingWith my golden-tressèd beautyIn the Tuileries’ fair gardenUnderneath the chesnuts’ shadow.Every day she goes to walk thereWith two old and ugly women—Are they aunts? or else two soldiersMuffled up in women’s garments?Overawed by the mustachiosOf her masculine attendants,And still farther overawed tooBy the feelings in my bosom,I ne’er ventured e’en one sighingWord to whisper as I pass’d her,And with looks I scarcely venturedEver to proclaim my passion.For the first time I to-day haveLearnt her name. Her name is Laura,Like the Provençal fair maidenWhom the famous poet loved so.Laura is her name! I’ve gone nowJust as far as Master Petrarch,Who the fair one celebratedIn canzonas and in sonnets.Laura is her name! like PetrarchI can now platonicallyRevel in this name euphonious—He himself no further ventured.
Every day I have a meetingWith my golden-tressèd beautyIn the Tuileries’ fair gardenUnderneath the chesnuts’ shadow.Every day she goes to walk thereWith two old and ugly women—Are they aunts? or else two soldiersMuffled up in women’s garments?Overawed by the mustachiosOf her masculine attendants,And still farther overawed tooBy the feelings in my bosom,I ne’er ventured e’en one sighingWord to whisper as I pass’d her,And with looks I scarcely venturedEver to proclaim my passion.For the first time I to-day haveLearnt her name. Her name is Laura,Like the Provençal fair maidenWhom the famous poet loved so.Laura is her name! I’ve gone nowJust as far as Master Petrarch,Who the fair one celebratedIn canzonas and in sonnets.Laura is her name! like PetrarchI can now platonicallyRevel in this name euphonious—He himself no further ventured.
Every day I have a meetingWith my golden-tressèd beautyIn the Tuileries’ fair gardenUnderneath the chesnuts’ shadow.
Every day she goes to walk thereWith two old and ugly women—Are they aunts? or else two soldiersMuffled up in women’s garments?
Overawed by the mustachiosOf her masculine attendants,And still farther overawed tooBy the feelings in my bosom,
I ne’er ventured e’en one sighingWord to whisper as I pass’d her,And with looks I scarcely venturedEver to proclaim my passion.
For the first time I to-day haveLearnt her name. Her name is Laura,Like the Provençal fair maidenWhom the famous poet loved so.
Laura is her name! I’ve gone nowJust as far as Master Petrarch,Who the fair one celebratedIn canzonas and in sonnets.
Laura is her name! like PetrarchI can now platonicallyRevel in this name euphonious—He himself no further ventured.
With brunettes I now have finish’d,And this year am once more fondOf the eyes whose colour blue is,Of the hair whose colour’s blond.Mild the blond one, whom I love now,And in meekness quite a gem!She would be some blest saint’s image,Held her hand a lily stem.Slender limbs of wondrous beauty,Little flesh, much sympathy;All her soul is glowing but forFaith and hope and charity.She maintains she understands notGerman,—but it can’t be so;Hast ne’er read the heavenly poemKlopstock wrote some time ago?
With brunettes I now have finish’d,And this year am once more fondOf the eyes whose colour blue is,Of the hair whose colour’s blond.Mild the blond one, whom I love now,And in meekness quite a gem!She would be some blest saint’s image,Held her hand a lily stem.Slender limbs of wondrous beauty,Little flesh, much sympathy;All her soul is glowing but forFaith and hope and charity.She maintains she understands notGerman,—but it can’t be so;Hast ne’er read the heavenly poemKlopstock wrote some time ago?
With brunettes I now have finish’d,And this year am once more fondOf the eyes whose colour blue is,Of the hair whose colour’s blond.
Mild the blond one, whom I love now,And in meekness quite a gem!She would be some blest saint’s image,Held her hand a lily stem.
Slender limbs of wondrous beauty,Little flesh, much sympathy;All her soul is glowing but forFaith and hope and charity.
She maintains she understands notGerman,—but it can’t be so;Hast ne’er read the heavenly poemKlopstock wrote some time ago?
Madam Fortune, thou in vainAct’st the coy one! I can gainBy my own exertions merelyAll thy favours prized so dearly.Thou art overcome by me,To the yoke I fasten thee;Thou art mine beyond escaping—But my bleeding wounds are gaping.All my red blood gushes out,My life’s courage to the routSoon is put; I’m vanquish’d lying,And in victory’s hour am dying.
Madam Fortune, thou in vainAct’st the coy one! I can gainBy my own exertions merelyAll thy favours prized so dearly.Thou art overcome by me,To the yoke I fasten thee;Thou art mine beyond escaping—But my bleeding wounds are gaping.All my red blood gushes out,My life’s courage to the routSoon is put; I’m vanquish’d lying,And in victory’s hour am dying.
Madam Fortune, thou in vainAct’st the coy one! I can gainBy my own exertions merelyAll thy favours prized so dearly.
Thou art overcome by me,To the yoke I fasten thee;Thou art mine beyond escaping—But my bleeding wounds are gaping.
All my red blood gushes out,My life’s courage to the routSoon is put; I’m vanquish’d lying,And in victory’s hour am dying.
The man on whom virtue smiles is blest,He is lost who neglects her instructions;Poor youth that I am, I am ruin’dBy evil companions’ seductions.For cards and dice soon dispossess’dMy pockets of all their money;At first the maidens consoled meWith smiles as luscious as honey.But when they had fuddled with wine their guest,And torn my garments, straightway(Poor youth that I am) they seized me,And bundled me out at the gateway.On waking after a bad night’s rest,—Sad end to all my ambition!—Poor youth that I am, I was fillingAt Cassel a sentry’s position.
The man on whom virtue smiles is blest,He is lost who neglects her instructions;Poor youth that I am, I am ruin’dBy evil companions’ seductions.For cards and dice soon dispossess’dMy pockets of all their money;At first the maidens consoled meWith smiles as luscious as honey.But when they had fuddled with wine their guest,And torn my garments, straightway(Poor youth that I am) they seized me,And bundled me out at the gateway.On waking after a bad night’s rest,—Sad end to all my ambition!—Poor youth that I am, I was fillingAt Cassel a sentry’s position.
The man on whom virtue smiles is blest,He is lost who neglects her instructions;Poor youth that I am, I am ruin’dBy evil companions’ seductions.
For cards and dice soon dispossess’dMy pockets of all their money;At first the maidens consoled meWith smiles as luscious as honey.
But when they had fuddled with wine their guest,And torn my garments, straightway(Poor youth that I am) they seized me,And bundled me out at the gateway.
On waking after a bad night’s rest,—Sad end to all my ambition!—Poor youth that I am, I was fillingAt Cassel a sentry’s position.
The day’s enamour’d of the night,The springtime loves the winter,And life’s in love with death,—And thou, thou lovest me!Thou lov’st me—thou’rt already seizedBy fear-inspiring shadows,And all thy blossoms fade,To death thy soul is bleeding.Away from me, and only loveThe butterflies, gay triflers,Who in the sunlight sport—Away from me and sorrow!
The day’s enamour’d of the night,The springtime loves the winter,And life’s in love with death,—And thou, thou lovest me!Thou lov’st me—thou’rt already seizedBy fear-inspiring shadows,And all thy blossoms fade,To death thy soul is bleeding.Away from me, and only loveThe butterflies, gay triflers,Who in the sunlight sport—Away from me and sorrow!
The day’s enamour’d of the night,The springtime loves the winter,And life’s in love with death,—And thou, thou lovest me!
Thou lov’st me—thou’rt already seizedBy fear-inspiring shadows,And all thy blossoms fade,To death thy soul is bleeding.
Away from me, and only loveThe butterflies, gay triflers,Who in the sunlight sport—Away from me and sorrow!
Says Bender to Peter over their wine:“I’ll wager (though doubtless you’re clever)“That though your fine singing may conquer the world,“My wife ’twill conquer never.”Then Peter replied: “I’ll wager my horse“To your dog, or the devil is in it,“I’ll sing Madam Mette into my house“This evening, at twelve to a minute.”And when the hour of midnight drew near,Friend Peter commenced his sweet singing;Right over the forest, right over the floodHis charming notes were ringing.The fir-trees listen’d in silence deep,The flood stood still and listen’d,The pale moon trembled high up in the sky,The wise stars joyously glisten’d.Madam Mette awoke from out of her sleep:“What singing! How sweet the seduction!”She put on her dress, and left the house—Alas, it proved her destruction!Right through the forest, right through the flood,She speeded onward straightway;While Peter, with the might of his song,Allured her inside his own gateway.And when she at morning return’d back home,At the door her husband caught her:“Pray tell me, good wife, where you spent the night!“Your garments are dripping with water.”“I spent the night at the water-nymphs’ stream,“And heard the Future told by them;“The mocking fairies wetted me through“With their splashes, for going too nigh them.”“You have not been to the water-nymphs’ stream,“The sand there could ne’er make you muddy;“Your feet, good wife, are bleeding and torn,“Your cheeks are also bloody.”“I spent the night in the elfin wood,“To see the elfin dances;“I wounded my feet and face with the thorns“And fir-boughs cutting like lances.”“The elfins dance in the sweet month of May“On flowery plains, but the chilly“Bleak days of autumn now reign on the earth,“The wind in the forests howls shrilly.”“At Peter Nielsen’s I spent the night,“He sang so mightily to me,“That through the forest, and through the flood“He irresistibly drew me.“His song is mighty as death itself,“To-night and perdition alluring;“Its tuneful glow still burns in my heart,“ A speedy death insuring.”The door of the church is hung with black,The funeral bells are ringing,Poor Madam Mette’s terrible deathTo public notice bringing.Poor Bender sighs, as he stands at the bier,—’Twas sad to hear him call so!—“I now have lost my beautiful wife,“And lost my true dog also.”
Says Bender to Peter over their wine:“I’ll wager (though doubtless you’re clever)“That though your fine singing may conquer the world,“My wife ’twill conquer never.”Then Peter replied: “I’ll wager my horse“To your dog, or the devil is in it,“I’ll sing Madam Mette into my house“This evening, at twelve to a minute.”And when the hour of midnight drew near,Friend Peter commenced his sweet singing;Right over the forest, right over the floodHis charming notes were ringing.The fir-trees listen’d in silence deep,The flood stood still and listen’d,The pale moon trembled high up in the sky,The wise stars joyously glisten’d.Madam Mette awoke from out of her sleep:“What singing! How sweet the seduction!”She put on her dress, and left the house—Alas, it proved her destruction!Right through the forest, right through the flood,She speeded onward straightway;While Peter, with the might of his song,Allured her inside his own gateway.And when she at morning return’d back home,At the door her husband caught her:“Pray tell me, good wife, where you spent the night!“Your garments are dripping with water.”“I spent the night at the water-nymphs’ stream,“And heard the Future told by them;“The mocking fairies wetted me through“With their splashes, for going too nigh them.”“You have not been to the water-nymphs’ stream,“The sand there could ne’er make you muddy;“Your feet, good wife, are bleeding and torn,“Your cheeks are also bloody.”“I spent the night in the elfin wood,“To see the elfin dances;“I wounded my feet and face with the thorns“And fir-boughs cutting like lances.”“The elfins dance in the sweet month of May“On flowery plains, but the chilly“Bleak days of autumn now reign on the earth,“The wind in the forests howls shrilly.”“At Peter Nielsen’s I spent the night,“He sang so mightily to me,“That through the forest, and through the flood“He irresistibly drew me.“His song is mighty as death itself,“To-night and perdition alluring;“Its tuneful glow still burns in my heart,“ A speedy death insuring.”The door of the church is hung with black,The funeral bells are ringing,Poor Madam Mette’s terrible deathTo public notice bringing.Poor Bender sighs, as he stands at the bier,—’Twas sad to hear him call so!—“I now have lost my beautiful wife,“And lost my true dog also.”
Says Bender to Peter over their wine:“I’ll wager (though doubtless you’re clever)“That though your fine singing may conquer the world,“My wife ’twill conquer never.”
Then Peter replied: “I’ll wager my horse“To your dog, or the devil is in it,“I’ll sing Madam Mette into my house“This evening, at twelve to a minute.”
And when the hour of midnight drew near,Friend Peter commenced his sweet singing;Right over the forest, right over the floodHis charming notes were ringing.
The fir-trees listen’d in silence deep,The flood stood still and listen’d,The pale moon trembled high up in the sky,The wise stars joyously glisten’d.
Madam Mette awoke from out of her sleep:“What singing! How sweet the seduction!”She put on her dress, and left the house—Alas, it proved her destruction!
Right through the forest, right through the flood,She speeded onward straightway;While Peter, with the might of his song,Allured her inside his own gateway.
And when she at morning return’d back home,At the door her husband caught her:“Pray tell me, good wife, where you spent the night!“Your garments are dripping with water.”
“I spent the night at the water-nymphs’ stream,“And heard the Future told by them;“The mocking fairies wetted me through“With their splashes, for going too nigh them.”
“You have not been to the water-nymphs’ stream,“The sand there could ne’er make you muddy;“Your feet, good wife, are bleeding and torn,“Your cheeks are also bloody.”
“I spent the night in the elfin wood,“To see the elfin dances;“I wounded my feet and face with the thorns“And fir-boughs cutting like lances.”
“The elfins dance in the sweet month of May“On flowery plains, but the chilly“Bleak days of autumn now reign on the earth,“The wind in the forests howls shrilly.”
“At Peter Nielsen’s I spent the night,“He sang so mightily to me,“That through the forest, and through the flood“He irresistibly drew me.
“His song is mighty as death itself,“To-night and perdition alluring;“Its tuneful glow still burns in my heart,“ A speedy death insuring.”
The door of the church is hung with black,The funeral bells are ringing,Poor Madam Mette’s terrible deathTo public notice bringing.
Poor Bender sighs, as he stands at the bier,—’Twas sad to hear him call so!—“I now have lost my beautiful wife,“And lost my true dog also.”
The music under the linden-tree sounds,The boys and the maidens dance lightly;Amongst them two dance, whom nobody knows,Of figures noble and sightly.They float about here, they float about there,In a way that strange habits expresses;They smile at each other, they shake their heads,The maiden the youth thus addresses:“My handsome youth, upon thy hatThere nods a lily splendid,That only grows in the depths of the sea,—From Adam thou art not descended.“The Kelpie art thou, who the fair village maidsWould’st allure with thy arts of seduction;I knew thee at once, at the very first sight,By thy teeth of fish-like construction.”They float about here, they float about there,In a way that strange habits expresses;They smile at each other, they shake their heads,The youth the maid thus addresses:“My handsome maiden, tell me why“Thy hand so icy cold is?“And tell me why thy snow-white dress“So moist in every fold is?“I knew thee at once, at the very first sight,“By thy bantering salutation;“Thou art no mortal child of man,“But the water-nymph, my relation.”The fiddles are silent, and finish’d the dance,They part like sister and brother,They know each other only too well,And shun now the sight of each other.
The music under the linden-tree sounds,The boys and the maidens dance lightly;Amongst them two dance, whom nobody knows,Of figures noble and sightly.They float about here, they float about there,In a way that strange habits expresses;They smile at each other, they shake their heads,The maiden the youth thus addresses:“My handsome youth, upon thy hatThere nods a lily splendid,That only grows in the depths of the sea,—From Adam thou art not descended.“The Kelpie art thou, who the fair village maidsWould’st allure with thy arts of seduction;I knew thee at once, at the very first sight,By thy teeth of fish-like construction.”They float about here, they float about there,In a way that strange habits expresses;They smile at each other, they shake their heads,The youth the maid thus addresses:“My handsome maiden, tell me why“Thy hand so icy cold is?“And tell me why thy snow-white dress“So moist in every fold is?“I knew thee at once, at the very first sight,“By thy bantering salutation;“Thou art no mortal child of man,“But the water-nymph, my relation.”The fiddles are silent, and finish’d the dance,They part like sister and brother,They know each other only too well,And shun now the sight of each other.
The music under the linden-tree sounds,The boys and the maidens dance lightly;Amongst them two dance, whom nobody knows,Of figures noble and sightly.
They float about here, they float about there,In a way that strange habits expresses;They smile at each other, they shake their heads,The maiden the youth thus addresses:
“My handsome youth, upon thy hatThere nods a lily splendid,That only grows in the depths of the sea,—From Adam thou art not descended.
“The Kelpie art thou, who the fair village maidsWould’st allure with thy arts of seduction;I knew thee at once, at the very first sight,By thy teeth of fish-like construction.”
They float about here, they float about there,In a way that strange habits expresses;They smile at each other, they shake their heads,The youth the maid thus addresses:
“My handsome maiden, tell me why“Thy hand so icy cold is?“And tell me why thy snow-white dress“So moist in every fold is?
“I knew thee at once, at the very first sight,“By thy bantering salutation;“Thou art no mortal child of man,“But the water-nymph, my relation.”
The fiddles are silent, and finish’d the dance,They part like sister and brother,They know each other only too well,And shun now the sight of each other.
The great King Harold HarfagarIn ocean’s depths is sitting,Beside his lovely water-fay;The years are over him flitting.By water-sprite’s magical arts chain’d down,He is neither living nor dead now,And while in this state of baneful blissTwo hundred years have sped now.The head of the king is laid on the lapOf the beautiful woman, and everHe yearningly gazes up tow’rd her eyes,And looks away from her never.His golden hair is silver grey,His cheekbones (of time’s march a token)Project like a ghost’s from his yellow face,His body is wither’d and broken.And many a time from his sweet dream of loveHe suddenly is waking,For over him wildly rages the flood,The castle of glass rudely shaking.He oftentimes fancies he hears in the windThe Northmen shouting out gladly;He raises his arms with joyous haste,Then lets them fall again sadly.He oftentimes fancies he hears far aboveThe seamen their voices raising,The great King Harold HarfagarIn songs heroical praising.And then the king from the depth of his heartBegins sobbing and wailing and sighing,When quickly the water-fay over him bends,With loving kisses replying.
The great King Harold HarfagarIn ocean’s depths is sitting,Beside his lovely water-fay;The years are over him flitting.By water-sprite’s magical arts chain’d down,He is neither living nor dead now,And while in this state of baneful blissTwo hundred years have sped now.The head of the king is laid on the lapOf the beautiful woman, and everHe yearningly gazes up tow’rd her eyes,And looks away from her never.His golden hair is silver grey,His cheekbones (of time’s march a token)Project like a ghost’s from his yellow face,His body is wither’d and broken.And many a time from his sweet dream of loveHe suddenly is waking,For over him wildly rages the flood,The castle of glass rudely shaking.He oftentimes fancies he hears in the windThe Northmen shouting out gladly;He raises his arms with joyous haste,Then lets them fall again sadly.He oftentimes fancies he hears far aboveThe seamen their voices raising,The great King Harold HarfagarIn songs heroical praising.And then the king from the depth of his heartBegins sobbing and wailing and sighing,When quickly the water-fay over him bends,With loving kisses replying.
The great King Harold HarfagarIn ocean’s depths is sitting,Beside his lovely water-fay;The years are over him flitting.
By water-sprite’s magical arts chain’d down,He is neither living nor dead now,And while in this state of baneful blissTwo hundred years have sped now.
The head of the king is laid on the lapOf the beautiful woman, and everHe yearningly gazes up tow’rd her eyes,And looks away from her never.
His golden hair is silver grey,His cheekbones (of time’s march a token)Project like a ghost’s from his yellow face,His body is wither’d and broken.
And many a time from his sweet dream of loveHe suddenly is waking,For over him wildly rages the flood,The castle of glass rudely shaking.
He oftentimes fancies he hears in the windThe Northmen shouting out gladly;He raises his arms with joyous haste,Then lets them fall again sadly.
He oftentimes fancies he hears far aboveThe seamen their voices raising,The great King Harold HarfagarIn songs heroical praising.
And then the king from the depth of his heartBegins sobbing and wailing and sighing,When quickly the water-fay over him bends,With loving kisses replying.
Many a time poor Pluto sigh’d thus:“Were I but a single man!“Since my married life began,“Hell, I’ve learnt, was not a hell“Till I to a wife was tied thus!“Would that I remain’d still single!“Since I Proserpine did wed,“Each day wish I I was dead!“With the bark of Cerberus“Her loud scoldings ever mingle.“Each attempt I make is fruitless“After peace. There’s not a ghost“Half so sad in all my host,“And I envy Sisyphus,“And the Danaid’s labour bootless.”
Many a time poor Pluto sigh’d thus:“Were I but a single man!“Since my married life began,“Hell, I’ve learnt, was not a hell“Till I to a wife was tied thus!“Would that I remain’d still single!“Since I Proserpine did wed,“Each day wish I I was dead!“With the bark of Cerberus“Her loud scoldings ever mingle.“Each attempt I make is fruitless“After peace. There’s not a ghost“Half so sad in all my host,“And I envy Sisyphus,“And the Danaid’s labour bootless.”
Many a time poor Pluto sigh’d thus:“Were I but a single man!“Since my married life began,“Hell, I’ve learnt, was not a hell“Till I to a wife was tied thus!
“Would that I remain’d still single!“Since I Proserpine did wed,“Each day wish I I was dead!“With the bark of Cerberus“Her loud scoldings ever mingle.
“Each attempt I make is fruitless“After peace. There’s not a ghost“Half so sad in all my host,“And I envy Sisyphus,“And the Danaid’s labour bootless.”
On golden chair in the regions infernal,Beside her spouse, the monarch eternal,Queen Proserpine’s sittingWith mien ill befittingHer station, and sadly she’s sighing:“For roses I yearn, and the rapturous blisses“Of Philomel’s song, and the sun’s sweet kisses;“And here ’mongst the pallid“Lemures and squalid“Dead bodies, my youth’s days are flying.“I’m firmly bound in the hard yoke of marriage“In this hole, which I’m sure e’en a rat would disparage“And the spectres unsightly“Through my window peep nightly,“Their wails with the Styx’s groans vying.“This very day I’ve invited to dinner“Old Charon, the bald-pated spindle-shank’d sinner,—“And also the Judges,“Those wearisome drudges—“Such company’s really too trying!”
On golden chair in the regions infernal,Beside her spouse, the monarch eternal,Queen Proserpine’s sittingWith mien ill befittingHer station, and sadly she’s sighing:“For roses I yearn, and the rapturous blisses“Of Philomel’s song, and the sun’s sweet kisses;“And here ’mongst the pallid“Lemures and squalid“Dead bodies, my youth’s days are flying.“I’m firmly bound in the hard yoke of marriage“In this hole, which I’m sure e’en a rat would disparage“And the spectres unsightly“Through my window peep nightly,“Their wails with the Styx’s groans vying.“This very day I’ve invited to dinner“Old Charon, the bald-pated spindle-shank’d sinner,—“And also the Judges,“Those wearisome drudges—“Such company’s really too trying!”
On golden chair in the regions infernal,Beside her spouse, the monarch eternal,Queen Proserpine’s sittingWith mien ill befittingHer station, and sadly she’s sighing:
“For roses I yearn, and the rapturous blisses“Of Philomel’s song, and the sun’s sweet kisses;“And here ’mongst the pallid“Lemures and squalid“Dead bodies, my youth’s days are flying.
“I’m firmly bound in the hard yoke of marriage“In this hole, which I’m sure e’en a rat would disparage“And the spectres unsightly“Through my window peep nightly,“Their wails with the Styx’s groans vying.
“This very day I’ve invited to dinner“Old Charon, the bald-pated spindle-shank’d sinner,—“And also the Judges,“Those wearisome drudges—“Such company’s really too trying!”
Whilst these murmurs unavailingIn the lower world found vent,Ceres on the earth was wailing,And the crazy goddess went,With no cap on, with no collar,And with loose dishevell’d hair,Uttering, in a voice of dolour,That lament known everywhere:[13]“Is’t the beauteous spring I see?“Hath the earth grown young again?“Sunlit hills glow verdantly,“Bursting through their icy chain.“From the streamlet’s mirror blue“Smiles the now-unclouded sky,“Zephyr’s wings wave milder too,“Youthful blossoms ope their eye.“In the grove sweet songs resound,“While the Oread thus doth speak:“‘Once again thy flow’rs are found,“Vain thy daughter ’tis to seek.’“Ah, how long ’tis since I went“First in search o’er earth’s wide face!“Titan, all thy rays I sent,“Seeking for the loved one’s trace!“Of that form so dear, no ray“Hath as yet brought news to me,“And the all-discerning Day“Cannot yet the lost one see.“Hast thou, Zeus, her from me torn?“Or to Orcus’ gloomy stream,“Hath she been by Pluto borne,“Smitten by her beauty’s beams?“Who will to yon dreary strand“Be the herald of my woe?“Ever leaves the bark the land,“Yet but shadows in it go.“To each blest eye evermore“Closed those night-like fields remain;“Styx no living form e’er bore,“Since his stream first wash’d the plain.“Thousand paths lead downward there,“None lead up again to light;“And her tears no witness e’er“Brings to her sad mother’s sight.”
Whilst these murmurs unavailingIn the lower world found vent,Ceres on the earth was wailing,And the crazy goddess went,With no cap on, with no collar,And with loose dishevell’d hair,Uttering, in a voice of dolour,That lament known everywhere:[13]“Is’t the beauteous spring I see?“Hath the earth grown young again?“Sunlit hills glow verdantly,“Bursting through their icy chain.“From the streamlet’s mirror blue“Smiles the now-unclouded sky,“Zephyr’s wings wave milder too,“Youthful blossoms ope their eye.“In the grove sweet songs resound,“While the Oread thus doth speak:“‘Once again thy flow’rs are found,“Vain thy daughter ’tis to seek.’“Ah, how long ’tis since I went“First in search o’er earth’s wide face!“Titan, all thy rays I sent,“Seeking for the loved one’s trace!“Of that form so dear, no ray“Hath as yet brought news to me,“And the all-discerning Day“Cannot yet the lost one see.“Hast thou, Zeus, her from me torn?“Or to Orcus’ gloomy stream,“Hath she been by Pluto borne,“Smitten by her beauty’s beams?“Who will to yon dreary strand“Be the herald of my woe?“Ever leaves the bark the land,“Yet but shadows in it go.“To each blest eye evermore“Closed those night-like fields remain;“Styx no living form e’er bore,“Since his stream first wash’d the plain.“Thousand paths lead downward there,“None lead up again to light;“And her tears no witness e’er“Brings to her sad mother’s sight.”
Whilst these murmurs unavailingIn the lower world found vent,Ceres on the earth was wailing,And the crazy goddess went,With no cap on, with no collar,And with loose dishevell’d hair,Uttering, in a voice of dolour,That lament known everywhere:[13]
“Is’t the beauteous spring I see?“Hath the earth grown young again?“Sunlit hills glow verdantly,“Bursting through their icy chain.“From the streamlet’s mirror blue“Smiles the now-unclouded sky,“Zephyr’s wings wave milder too,“Youthful blossoms ope their eye.“In the grove sweet songs resound,“While the Oread thus doth speak:“‘Once again thy flow’rs are found,“Vain thy daughter ’tis to seek.’
“Ah, how long ’tis since I went“First in search o’er earth’s wide face!“Titan, all thy rays I sent,“Seeking for the loved one’s trace!“Of that form so dear, no ray“Hath as yet brought news to me,“And the all-discerning Day“Cannot yet the lost one see.“Hast thou, Zeus, her from me torn?“Or to Orcus’ gloomy stream,“Hath she been by Pluto borne,“Smitten by her beauty’s beams?
“Who will to yon dreary strand“Be the herald of my woe?“Ever leaves the bark the land,“Yet but shadows in it go.“To each blest eye evermore“Closed those night-like fields remain;“Styx no living form e’er bore,“Since his stream first wash’d the plain.“Thousand paths lead downward there,“None lead up again to light;“And her tears no witness e’er“Brings to her sad mother’s sight.”
“Ceres! my good wife’s relation!“Prythee cease to weep and call so!“I now grant your application—“I have suffer’d greatly also!“Comfort take! we’ll share your daughter’s“Sweet society, and let her“Have on earth six months her quarters“Yearly, if you like it better.“She, when men in summer swelter,“Can assist your rural labours,“‘Neath a straw hat taking shelter,“Flow’r-bedizen’d, like her neighbours’.“She can rant, when colours glowing“Robe the evening sky in splendour,“When beside the stream is blowing“On his flute a bumpkin tender.“She’ll rejoice with lads and lasses“At the harvest-home’s gay dances,“And amongst the sheep and asses“Be a lioness, the chance is.“I’ll recruit my spirits sinking“Here in Orcus in a canter,“Mingled punch and Lethe drinking,“And forget my wife instanter!”
“Ceres! my good wife’s relation!“Prythee cease to weep and call so!“I now grant your application—“I have suffer’d greatly also!“Comfort take! we’ll share your daughter’s“Sweet society, and let her“Have on earth six months her quarters“Yearly, if you like it better.“She, when men in summer swelter,“Can assist your rural labours,“‘Neath a straw hat taking shelter,“Flow’r-bedizen’d, like her neighbours’.“She can rant, when colours glowing“Robe the evening sky in splendour,“When beside the stream is blowing“On his flute a bumpkin tender.“She’ll rejoice with lads and lasses“At the harvest-home’s gay dances,“And amongst the sheep and asses“Be a lioness, the chance is.“I’ll recruit my spirits sinking“Here in Orcus in a canter,“Mingled punch and Lethe drinking,“And forget my wife instanter!”
“Ceres! my good wife’s relation!“Prythee cease to weep and call so!“I now grant your application—“I have suffer’d greatly also!
“Comfort take! we’ll share your daughter’s“Sweet society, and let her“Have on earth six months her quarters“Yearly, if you like it better.
“She, when men in summer swelter,“Can assist your rural labours,“‘Neath a straw hat taking shelter,“Flow’r-bedizen’d, like her neighbours’.
“She can rant, when colours glowing“Robe the evening sky in splendour,“When beside the stream is blowing“On his flute a bumpkin tender.
“She’ll rejoice with lads and lasses“At the harvest-home’s gay dances,“And amongst the sheep and asses“Be a lioness, the chance is.
“I’ll recruit my spirits sinking“Here in Orcus in a canter,“Mingled punch and Lethe drinking,“And forget my wife instanter!”
“Methinks at times thy brow is shaded“With yearnings that in secret dwell;“Thy hapless lot I know full well;“Lost love, a life untimely faded!“Thou nodd’st a sad assent! I never“Can give thee back thy youthful prime;“Thy heart’s woes cannot heal with time:“A faded life, love lost for ever!”
“Methinks at times thy brow is shaded“With yearnings that in secret dwell;“Thy hapless lot I know full well;“Lost love, a life untimely faded!“Thou nodd’st a sad assent! I never“Can give thee back thy youthful prime;“Thy heart’s woes cannot heal with time:“A faded life, love lost for ever!”
“Methinks at times thy brow is shaded“With yearnings that in secret dwell;“Thy hapless lot I know full well;“Lost love, a life untimely faded!
“Thou nodd’st a sad assent! I never“Can give thee back thy youthful prime;“Thy heart’s woes cannot heal with time:“A faded life, love lost for ever!”
Thy father, as is known to all,A donkey was, beyond denial;Thy mother on the other handA noble brood-mare proved on trial.Thy mulish nature, worthy friend,Though little liked, a thing of course is;Yet thou canst say, with perfect truth,That thou belongest to the horses.Thou spring’st from proud Bucephalus;Thy fathers were with the invadersWho to the Holy SepulchreOf old time went, the famed Crusaders.Thou countest ’mongst thy relativesThe charger ridden by the gloriousSir Godfrey of Bouillon the dayHe took God’s town with arm victorious.Thou canst aver that Bayard’s steedThy cousin was, and say (andante)Thine aunt the knight Don Quixote bore,The most heroic Rosinante.But Sancho’s donkey thou’lt not ownAs kin, he being much too lowly;Thou’lt e’en disown the ass’s foalThat whilome bore the Saviour holy.And thou art not obliged to stickA long-ear surely in thy scutcheon;Of thine own value be the judge,And thou wilt never lay too much on.
Thy father, as is known to all,A donkey was, beyond denial;Thy mother on the other handA noble brood-mare proved on trial.Thy mulish nature, worthy friend,Though little liked, a thing of course is;Yet thou canst say, with perfect truth,That thou belongest to the horses.Thou spring’st from proud Bucephalus;Thy fathers were with the invadersWho to the Holy SepulchreOf old time went, the famed Crusaders.Thou countest ’mongst thy relativesThe charger ridden by the gloriousSir Godfrey of Bouillon the dayHe took God’s town with arm victorious.Thou canst aver that Bayard’s steedThy cousin was, and say (andante)Thine aunt the knight Don Quixote bore,The most heroic Rosinante.But Sancho’s donkey thou’lt not ownAs kin, he being much too lowly;Thou’lt e’en disown the ass’s foalThat whilome bore the Saviour holy.And thou art not obliged to stickA long-ear surely in thy scutcheon;Of thine own value be the judge,And thou wilt never lay too much on.
Thy father, as is known to all,A donkey was, beyond denial;Thy mother on the other handA noble brood-mare proved on trial.
Thy mulish nature, worthy friend,Though little liked, a thing of course is;Yet thou canst say, with perfect truth,That thou belongest to the horses.
Thou spring’st from proud Bucephalus;Thy fathers were with the invadersWho to the Holy SepulchreOf old time went, the famed Crusaders.
Thou countest ’mongst thy relativesThe charger ridden by the gloriousSir Godfrey of Bouillon the dayHe took God’s town with arm victorious.
Thou canst aver that Bayard’s steedThy cousin was, and say (andante)Thine aunt the knight Don Quixote bore,The most heroic Rosinante.
But Sancho’s donkey thou’lt not ownAs kin, he being much too lowly;Thou’lt e’en disown the ass’s foalThat whilome bore the Saviour holy.
And thou art not obliged to stickA long-ear surely in thy scutcheon;Of thine own value be the judge,And thou wilt never lay too much on.
We’ll now begin to sing the songOf a Number of much reputation,Known by the name of Number Three:To joy succeeds vexation.Though sprung from an old Arabian stock,In Christian estimationNothing in Europe higher stoodThan this Number of proud reputation.A very pattern of modesty,How great was her indignationAt finding the man in bed with the maid!She gave them a sound castigation.In summer her coffee at sevenA.M.She drank with much gratification,In winter at nine, and slept all nightWithout the least molestation.But now ’tis time to alter our rhyme,To-day is changed to to-morrow,And, sad to say, poor Number ThreeMust suffer pain and sorrow.There came a cobbler who said: “The head“Of Number Three at present“Is like a small Seven that’s placed on the top“Of the moon when she’s shaped like a crescent.“The Seven the mystical number is“Of the ancient Pythagoreans;“The crescent Diana’s worship denotes,“And also recals the Sabeans.“The Three herself the famed Shibboleth is“Of the senior bonze of Babel,“Intriguing with whom she at length gave birth“To the Holy Trinity’s fable.”A tailor came next, with a smile on his face;Poor Number Three, he insisted,Was nought but a name, and nowhere elseExcept upon paper existed.When poor Three heard these cruel words,Like a duck in a state of distractionShe waddled here and waddled there,Lamenting with vehement action:“I’m just as old as the sea and the wold,“As the stars that in heaven are blinking;“I’ve seen kingdoms ascend, and presently end,“And nations rising and sinking.“I’ve stood on the ceaselessly whirling loom“Of time for many long ages;“I’ve peep’d into Nature’s fashioning womb,“Where everything rushes and rages.“And nevertheless I withstood all assaults“Of darkness and sensuality,“And safely preserved my virgin charms,“Despite their cruel brutality.“What use is my virtue now? By the wise“And the fools I am evil entreated;“The world is wicked, and ne’er content“Till every one is cheated.“But cheer up, my heart! thou still hast left“Thy faith and hope and charity,“With excellent coffee and glasses of rum“Above the reach of vulgarity.”
We’ll now begin to sing the songOf a Number of much reputation,Known by the name of Number Three:To joy succeeds vexation.Though sprung from an old Arabian stock,In Christian estimationNothing in Europe higher stoodThan this Number of proud reputation.A very pattern of modesty,How great was her indignationAt finding the man in bed with the maid!She gave them a sound castigation.In summer her coffee at sevenA.M.She drank with much gratification,In winter at nine, and slept all nightWithout the least molestation.But now ’tis time to alter our rhyme,To-day is changed to to-morrow,And, sad to say, poor Number ThreeMust suffer pain and sorrow.There came a cobbler who said: “The head“Of Number Three at present“Is like a small Seven that’s placed on the top“Of the moon when she’s shaped like a crescent.“The Seven the mystical number is“Of the ancient Pythagoreans;“The crescent Diana’s worship denotes,“And also recals the Sabeans.“The Three herself the famed Shibboleth is“Of the senior bonze of Babel,“Intriguing with whom she at length gave birth“To the Holy Trinity’s fable.”A tailor came next, with a smile on his face;Poor Number Three, he insisted,Was nought but a name, and nowhere elseExcept upon paper existed.When poor Three heard these cruel words,Like a duck in a state of distractionShe waddled here and waddled there,Lamenting with vehement action:“I’m just as old as the sea and the wold,“As the stars that in heaven are blinking;“I’ve seen kingdoms ascend, and presently end,“And nations rising and sinking.“I’ve stood on the ceaselessly whirling loom“Of time for many long ages;“I’ve peep’d into Nature’s fashioning womb,“Where everything rushes and rages.“And nevertheless I withstood all assaults“Of darkness and sensuality,“And safely preserved my virgin charms,“Despite their cruel brutality.“What use is my virtue now? By the wise“And the fools I am evil entreated;“The world is wicked, and ne’er content“Till every one is cheated.“But cheer up, my heart! thou still hast left“Thy faith and hope and charity,“With excellent coffee and glasses of rum“Above the reach of vulgarity.”
We’ll now begin to sing the songOf a Number of much reputation,Known by the name of Number Three:To joy succeeds vexation.
Though sprung from an old Arabian stock,In Christian estimationNothing in Europe higher stoodThan this Number of proud reputation.
A very pattern of modesty,How great was her indignationAt finding the man in bed with the maid!She gave them a sound castigation.
In summer her coffee at sevenA.M.She drank with much gratification,In winter at nine, and slept all nightWithout the least molestation.
But now ’tis time to alter our rhyme,To-day is changed to to-morrow,And, sad to say, poor Number ThreeMust suffer pain and sorrow.
There came a cobbler who said: “The head“Of Number Three at present“Is like a small Seven that’s placed on the top“Of the moon when she’s shaped like a crescent.
“The Seven the mystical number is“Of the ancient Pythagoreans;“The crescent Diana’s worship denotes,“And also recals the Sabeans.
“The Three herself the famed Shibboleth is“Of the senior bonze of Babel,“Intriguing with whom she at length gave birth“To the Holy Trinity’s fable.”
A tailor came next, with a smile on his face;Poor Number Three, he insisted,Was nought but a name, and nowhere elseExcept upon paper existed.
When poor Three heard these cruel words,Like a duck in a state of distractionShe waddled here and waddled there,Lamenting with vehement action:
“I’m just as old as the sea and the wold,“As the stars that in heaven are blinking;“I’ve seen kingdoms ascend, and presently end,“And nations rising and sinking.
“I’ve stood on the ceaselessly whirling loom“Of time for many long ages;“I’ve peep’d into Nature’s fashioning womb,“Where everything rushes and rages.
“And nevertheless I withstood all assaults“Of darkness and sensuality,“And safely preserved my virgin charms,“Despite their cruel brutality.
“What use is my virtue now? By the wise“And the fools I am evil entreated;“The world is wicked, and ne’er content“Till every one is cheated.
“But cheer up, my heart! thou still hast left“Thy faith and hope and charity,“With excellent coffee and glasses of rum“Above the reach of vulgarity.”
O Countess Gudel of Gudelfeld town,Because you are wealthy, you’re held in renownWith not less than four horses contented,At court you are duly presented;In carriage of gold you go lightlyTo the castle, where waxlights gleam brightly;Up the marble stairs rustleYour clothes with their bustle,And then at the top, on the landingThe servants in gay dresses standingShout: Madame la Comtesse de Gudelfeld!Your fan in your hand, talking loudly,Through the chamber you wander on proudly;With diamonds gaily bedizen’d,In pearls and Brussels lace prison’d,Your snowy bosom with madnessIs heaving in uncontroll’d gladness.What smiles, nods, polite interjections!What curtsies and deep genuflexions!The Duchess of PaviaCalls you hercara mia;The nobles and courtiers advancingInvite you to join in the dancing;And the heir to the crown (who’s thought witty)Says loudly: How graceful and prettyAre all thesternmovements of Gudelfeld!But if, poor creature, you money did lack,The world would straightway show you its back;The very lackeys with loathingWould spit on your clothing;’Stead of bows and civility,Nought but vulgar scurrility;The Duchess would cross herself rudely,And the Crown Prince take snuff, and say shrewdly:She smells of garlic—this Gudelfeld!
O Countess Gudel of Gudelfeld town,Because you are wealthy, you’re held in renownWith not less than four horses contented,At court you are duly presented;In carriage of gold you go lightlyTo the castle, where waxlights gleam brightly;Up the marble stairs rustleYour clothes with their bustle,And then at the top, on the landingThe servants in gay dresses standingShout: Madame la Comtesse de Gudelfeld!Your fan in your hand, talking loudly,Through the chamber you wander on proudly;With diamonds gaily bedizen’d,In pearls and Brussels lace prison’d,Your snowy bosom with madnessIs heaving in uncontroll’d gladness.What smiles, nods, polite interjections!What curtsies and deep genuflexions!The Duchess of PaviaCalls you hercara mia;The nobles and courtiers advancingInvite you to join in the dancing;And the heir to the crown (who’s thought witty)Says loudly: How graceful and prettyAre all thesternmovements of Gudelfeld!But if, poor creature, you money did lack,The world would straightway show you its back;The very lackeys with loathingWould spit on your clothing;’Stead of bows and civility,Nought but vulgar scurrility;The Duchess would cross herself rudely,And the Crown Prince take snuff, and say shrewdly:She smells of garlic—this Gudelfeld!
O Countess Gudel of Gudelfeld town,Because you are wealthy, you’re held in renownWith not less than four horses contented,At court you are duly presented;In carriage of gold you go lightlyTo the castle, where waxlights gleam brightly;Up the marble stairs rustleYour clothes with their bustle,And then at the top, on the landingThe servants in gay dresses standingShout: Madame la Comtesse de Gudelfeld!
Your fan in your hand, talking loudly,Through the chamber you wander on proudly;With diamonds gaily bedizen’d,In pearls and Brussels lace prison’d,Your snowy bosom with madnessIs heaving in uncontroll’d gladness.What smiles, nods, polite interjections!What curtsies and deep genuflexions!The Duchess of PaviaCalls you hercara mia;The nobles and courtiers advancingInvite you to join in the dancing;And the heir to the crown (who’s thought witty)Says loudly: How graceful and prettyAre all thesternmovements of Gudelfeld!
But if, poor creature, you money did lack,The world would straightway show you its back;The very lackeys with loathingWould spit on your clothing;’Stead of bows and civility,Nought but vulgar scurrility;The Duchess would cross herself rudely,And the Crown Prince take snuff, and say shrewdly:She smells of garlic—this Gudelfeld!
If by one woman thou’rt jilted, loveAnother, and so forget her;To pack up thy knapsack, and straight removeFrom the town will be still better.Thou’lt soon discover a blue lake fair,By weeping willows surrounded;Thy trifling grief thou’lt weep away there,Thy pangs so little founded.Whilst climbing up the hillside fast,Thou’lt pant and groan full loudly;But when on the rocky summit at last,Thou’lt hear the eagle scream proudly.An eagle thyself thou’lt seem to be,New life the change will bestow thee;Thou’lt feel thou hast lost, when thus set free,Not much in the world below thee.
If by one woman thou’rt jilted, loveAnother, and so forget her;To pack up thy knapsack, and straight removeFrom the town will be still better.Thou’lt soon discover a blue lake fair,By weeping willows surrounded;Thy trifling grief thou’lt weep away there,Thy pangs so little founded.Whilst climbing up the hillside fast,Thou’lt pant and groan full loudly;But when on the rocky summit at last,Thou’lt hear the eagle scream proudly.An eagle thyself thou’lt seem to be,New life the change will bestow thee;Thou’lt feel thou hast lost, when thus set free,Not much in the world below thee.
If by one woman thou’rt jilted, loveAnother, and so forget her;To pack up thy knapsack, and straight removeFrom the town will be still better.
Thou’lt soon discover a blue lake fair,By weeping willows surrounded;Thy trifling grief thou’lt weep away there,Thy pangs so little founded.
Whilst climbing up the hillside fast,Thou’lt pant and groan full loudly;But when on the rocky summit at last,Thou’lt hear the eagle scream proudly.
An eagle thyself thou’lt seem to be,New life the change will bestow thee;Thou’lt feel thou hast lost, when thus set free,Not much in the world below thee.
The cold may burn us sadlyLike fire, and mortals hurryAmidst the snowdrift madly,With still-increasing flurry.O winter stern and chilly,When frozen are our noses,And piano-strumming sillyOur ears so discomposes!I like the summer onlyWhen in the wood I’m rovingWith my own griefs all-lonely,And scanning verses loving.
The cold may burn us sadlyLike fire, and mortals hurryAmidst the snowdrift madly,With still-increasing flurry.O winter stern and chilly,When frozen are our noses,And piano-strumming sillyOur ears so discomposes!I like the summer onlyWhen in the wood I’m rovingWith my own griefs all-lonely,And scanning verses loving.
The cold may burn us sadlyLike fire, and mortals hurryAmidst the snowdrift madly,With still-increasing flurry.
O winter stern and chilly,When frozen are our noses,And piano-strumming sillyOur ears so discomposes!
I like the summer onlyWhen in the wood I’m rovingWith my own griefs all-lonely,And scanning verses loving.
Outside fall the snowflakes lightlyThrough the night, loud raves the stormIn my room the fire glows brightly,And ’tis cosy, silent, warm.Musing sit I on the settleBy the firelight’s cheerful blaze,Listening to the busy kettleHumming long-forgotten lays.And beside me sits a kitten,Warming at the blaze her feet;Strangely are my senses smittenAs the flickering flames they meet.Many a dim long-buried storyO’er me soon begins to rise,But with dead and faded glory,And in strange and mask’d disguise.Lovely women with shrewd facesGreet me with a secret smile,Then the harlequins run races,Laughing merrily the while.Distant marble-gods nod kindly,Dreamily beside them growFable-flow’rs, whose leaves wave blindlyIn the moonlight to and fro.Magic castles, once resplendent,Ruin’d now, in sight appear;Knights in armour, squires attendantQuickly follow in their rear.All these visions I discoverAs with shadowy haste they pass,—Ah, the kettle’s boiling over,And the kitten’s burnt, alas!
Outside fall the snowflakes lightlyThrough the night, loud raves the stormIn my room the fire glows brightly,And ’tis cosy, silent, warm.Musing sit I on the settleBy the firelight’s cheerful blaze,Listening to the busy kettleHumming long-forgotten lays.And beside me sits a kitten,Warming at the blaze her feet;Strangely are my senses smittenAs the flickering flames they meet.Many a dim long-buried storyO’er me soon begins to rise,But with dead and faded glory,And in strange and mask’d disguise.Lovely women with shrewd facesGreet me with a secret smile,Then the harlequins run races,Laughing merrily the while.Distant marble-gods nod kindly,Dreamily beside them growFable-flow’rs, whose leaves wave blindlyIn the moonlight to and fro.Magic castles, once resplendent,Ruin’d now, in sight appear;Knights in armour, squires attendantQuickly follow in their rear.All these visions I discoverAs with shadowy haste they pass,—Ah, the kettle’s boiling over,And the kitten’s burnt, alas!
Outside fall the snowflakes lightlyThrough the night, loud raves the stormIn my room the fire glows brightly,And ’tis cosy, silent, warm.
Musing sit I on the settleBy the firelight’s cheerful blaze,Listening to the busy kettleHumming long-forgotten lays.
And beside me sits a kitten,Warming at the blaze her feet;Strangely are my senses smittenAs the flickering flames they meet.
Many a dim long-buried storyO’er me soon begins to rise,But with dead and faded glory,And in strange and mask’d disguise.
Lovely women with shrewd facesGreet me with a secret smile,Then the harlequins run races,Laughing merrily the while.
Distant marble-gods nod kindly,Dreamily beside them growFable-flow’rs, whose leaves wave blindlyIn the moonlight to and fro.
Magic castles, once resplendent,Ruin’d now, in sight appear;Knights in armour, squires attendantQuickly follow in their rear.
All these visions I discoverAs with shadowy haste they pass,—Ah, the kettle’s boiling over,And the kitten’s burnt, alas!