Upon the hedge the beetle sits sadly,He has fallen in love with a lady-fly madly.O fly of my soul, ’tis thou aloneArt the wife I have chosen to be my own.O marry me, and be not cold,For I have a belly of glistening gold.My back is a mass of glory and show,There rubies glitter, there emeralds glow—O would that I were a fool just now!I’d never marry a beetle, I vow.I care not for emeralds, rubies, or gold,I know that no happiness riches enfold.’Tis tow’rd the ideal my thought soars high,For I am in truth a haughty fly.—The beetle flew off, with a heart like to break,The fly went away, a bath to take.O what has become of my maid, the bee,That she when I’m washing may wait on me,That she may stroke my soft hair outside,For I am now a beetle’s bride.In truth, a splendid party I’ll give,For handsomer beetle never did live.His back is a mass of glory and show,There rubies glitter, there emeralds glow.His belly is golden, and noble each feature;With envy will burst full many a creature.Make haste, Miss Bee, and dress my hair,And lace my waist, use perfumes rare.With otto of roses rub me o’er,And lavender oil on my feet then pour,That I mayn’t stink or nastily smell,When I in my bridegroom’s arms shall dwell.Already are flitting the dragonflies blue,As maids of honour to wait on me too.Into my bridal garland they’ll twineThe blossoms white of the orange so fine.Full many musicians are asked to the place,And singers as well, of the grasshopper race.The bittern, drone, hornet, and gadfly all come,To blow on the trumpet, and beat the drum.They’re all to strike up for the glad wedding feast—The gay-wingèd guests, from greatest to least,Are coming in families dapper and brisk,The commoner insects amongst them frisk.The grasshoppers, wasps, and the aunts, and the cousinsAre coming, whilst trumpets are blowing by dozens.The pastor, the mole, in black dignified state,Has also arrived, and the hour grows late.The bells are all sounding ding-dong, ding-a-dong—But where’s my dear bridegroom ling’ring so long?Ding dong, ding-a-dong, sound the bells all the day,The bridegroom however has flown far away.The bells are all sounding ding-dong, ding-a-dong—But where’s my dear bridegroom ling’ring so long?The bridegroom has meanwhile taken his seatOn a distant dunghill, enjoying the heat.Seven years there sits he, until his forgottenPoor bride has long been dead and rotten.
Upon the hedge the beetle sits sadly,He has fallen in love with a lady-fly madly.O fly of my soul, ’tis thou aloneArt the wife I have chosen to be my own.O marry me, and be not cold,For I have a belly of glistening gold.My back is a mass of glory and show,There rubies glitter, there emeralds glow—O would that I were a fool just now!I’d never marry a beetle, I vow.I care not for emeralds, rubies, or gold,I know that no happiness riches enfold.’Tis tow’rd the ideal my thought soars high,For I am in truth a haughty fly.—The beetle flew off, with a heart like to break,The fly went away, a bath to take.O what has become of my maid, the bee,That she when I’m washing may wait on me,That she may stroke my soft hair outside,For I am now a beetle’s bride.In truth, a splendid party I’ll give,For handsomer beetle never did live.His back is a mass of glory and show,There rubies glitter, there emeralds glow.His belly is golden, and noble each feature;With envy will burst full many a creature.Make haste, Miss Bee, and dress my hair,And lace my waist, use perfumes rare.With otto of roses rub me o’er,And lavender oil on my feet then pour,That I mayn’t stink or nastily smell,When I in my bridegroom’s arms shall dwell.Already are flitting the dragonflies blue,As maids of honour to wait on me too.Into my bridal garland they’ll twineThe blossoms white of the orange so fine.Full many musicians are asked to the place,And singers as well, of the grasshopper race.The bittern, drone, hornet, and gadfly all come,To blow on the trumpet, and beat the drum.They’re all to strike up for the glad wedding feast—The gay-wingèd guests, from greatest to least,Are coming in families dapper and brisk,The commoner insects amongst them frisk.The grasshoppers, wasps, and the aunts, and the cousinsAre coming, whilst trumpets are blowing by dozens.The pastor, the mole, in black dignified state,Has also arrived, and the hour grows late.The bells are all sounding ding-dong, ding-a-dong—But where’s my dear bridegroom ling’ring so long?Ding dong, ding-a-dong, sound the bells all the day,The bridegroom however has flown far away.The bells are all sounding ding-dong, ding-a-dong—But where’s my dear bridegroom ling’ring so long?The bridegroom has meanwhile taken his seatOn a distant dunghill, enjoying the heat.Seven years there sits he, until his forgottenPoor bride has long been dead and rotten.
Upon the hedge the beetle sits sadly,He has fallen in love with a lady-fly madly.
O fly of my soul, ’tis thou aloneArt the wife I have chosen to be my own.
O marry me, and be not cold,For I have a belly of glistening gold.
My back is a mass of glory and show,There rubies glitter, there emeralds glow—
O would that I were a fool just now!I’d never marry a beetle, I vow.
I care not for emeralds, rubies, or gold,I know that no happiness riches enfold.
’Tis tow’rd the ideal my thought soars high,For I am in truth a haughty fly.—
The beetle flew off, with a heart like to break,The fly went away, a bath to take.
O what has become of my maid, the bee,That she when I’m washing may wait on me,
That she may stroke my soft hair outside,For I am now a beetle’s bride.
In truth, a splendid party I’ll give,For handsomer beetle never did live.
His back is a mass of glory and show,There rubies glitter, there emeralds glow.
His belly is golden, and noble each feature;With envy will burst full many a creature.
Make haste, Miss Bee, and dress my hair,And lace my waist, use perfumes rare.
With otto of roses rub me o’er,And lavender oil on my feet then pour,
That I mayn’t stink or nastily smell,When I in my bridegroom’s arms shall dwell.
Already are flitting the dragonflies blue,As maids of honour to wait on me too.
Into my bridal garland they’ll twineThe blossoms white of the orange so fine.
Full many musicians are asked to the place,And singers as well, of the grasshopper race.
The bittern, drone, hornet, and gadfly all come,To blow on the trumpet, and beat the drum.
They’re all to strike up for the glad wedding feast—The gay-wingèd guests, from greatest to least,
Are coming in families dapper and brisk,The commoner insects amongst them frisk.
The grasshoppers, wasps, and the aunts, and the cousinsAre coming, whilst trumpets are blowing by dozens.
The pastor, the mole, in black dignified state,Has also arrived, and the hour grows late.
The bells are all sounding ding-dong, ding-a-dong—But where’s my dear bridegroom ling’ring so long?
Ding dong, ding-a-dong, sound the bells all the day,The bridegroom however has flown far away.
The bells are all sounding ding-dong, ding-a-dong—But where’s my dear bridegroom ling’ring so long?
The bridegroom has meanwhile taken his seatOn a distant dunghill, enjoying the heat.
Seven years there sits he, until his forgottenPoor bride has long been dead and rotten.
“I’m no modest city creature“By the hearth demurely spinning,“But a free cat on the roof,“In the air, with manners winning.“When in summer nights I’m musing“On the roof, in grateful coolness,“Music in me purrs, I sing“From my heart’s o’erpowering fulness.”Thus she speaks, and from her bosomWild and wedding-songs stream thickly,And the melody alluresAll the cats unmarried quickly.Purring, mewing, thither hastenAll the young cats, plain or brindled,And with Mimi join in chorus,Full of love, with passion kindled.They are no mere virtuososWho profane, for sordid wages,Music, but of harmonyAre apostles true, and sages.They no instruments use ever,Each is his own flute and viol;All their noses trumpets are,Bellies, drums, and no denial.They in chorus raise their voices,In one general intermezzo,Playing fugues, as if by Bach,Or by Guido of Arezzo.Wild the symphonies they’re singingLike capriccios of Beethoven,Or of Berlioz, who’s excell’dBy their strains so interwoven.Wonderful their music’s might is!Magic notes without an equal!E’en the heavens they shake, the starsAll turn pallid in the sequel.When the magic notes she heareth,And the wondrous tones delightful,Then Selene hides her faceWith a veil of clouds so frightful.But the nightingale with envy—Scandalous old prima donna—Turns her nose up, snuffs, and scornsMimi’s voice, to her dishonour.Never mind! She’ll go on singingSpite the envy of Signora,Till on the horizon’s seen,Smiling rosily, Aurora.
“I’m no modest city creature“By the hearth demurely spinning,“But a free cat on the roof,“In the air, with manners winning.“When in summer nights I’m musing“On the roof, in grateful coolness,“Music in me purrs, I sing“From my heart’s o’erpowering fulness.”Thus she speaks, and from her bosomWild and wedding-songs stream thickly,And the melody alluresAll the cats unmarried quickly.Purring, mewing, thither hastenAll the young cats, plain or brindled,And with Mimi join in chorus,Full of love, with passion kindled.They are no mere virtuososWho profane, for sordid wages,Music, but of harmonyAre apostles true, and sages.They no instruments use ever,Each is his own flute and viol;All their noses trumpets are,Bellies, drums, and no denial.They in chorus raise their voices,In one general intermezzo,Playing fugues, as if by Bach,Or by Guido of Arezzo.Wild the symphonies they’re singingLike capriccios of Beethoven,Or of Berlioz, who’s excell’dBy their strains so interwoven.Wonderful their music’s might is!Magic notes without an equal!E’en the heavens they shake, the starsAll turn pallid in the sequel.When the magic notes she heareth,And the wondrous tones delightful,Then Selene hides her faceWith a veil of clouds so frightful.But the nightingale with envy—Scandalous old prima donna—Turns her nose up, snuffs, and scornsMimi’s voice, to her dishonour.Never mind! She’ll go on singingSpite the envy of Signora,Till on the horizon’s seen,Smiling rosily, Aurora.
“I’m no modest city creature“By the hearth demurely spinning,“But a free cat on the roof,“In the air, with manners winning.
“When in summer nights I’m musing“On the roof, in grateful coolness,“Music in me purrs, I sing“From my heart’s o’erpowering fulness.”
Thus she speaks, and from her bosomWild and wedding-songs stream thickly,And the melody alluresAll the cats unmarried quickly.
Purring, mewing, thither hastenAll the young cats, plain or brindled,And with Mimi join in chorus,Full of love, with passion kindled.
They are no mere virtuososWho profane, for sordid wages,Music, but of harmonyAre apostles true, and sages.
They no instruments use ever,Each is his own flute and viol;All their noses trumpets are,Bellies, drums, and no denial.
They in chorus raise their voices,In one general intermezzo,Playing fugues, as if by Bach,Or by Guido of Arezzo.
Wild the symphonies they’re singingLike capriccios of Beethoven,Or of Berlioz, who’s excell’dBy their strains so interwoven.
Wonderful their music’s might is!Magic notes without an equal!E’en the heavens they shake, the starsAll turn pallid in the sequel.
When the magic notes she heareth,And the wondrous tones delightful,Then Selene hides her faceWith a veil of clouds so frightful.
But the nightingale with envy—Scandalous old prima donna—Turns her nose up, snuffs, and scornsMimi’s voice, to her dishonour.
Never mind! She’ll go on singingSpite the envy of Signora,Till on the horizon’s seen,Smiling rosily, Aurora.
Cease thy blushes and thy sorrow,Boldly woo, and, not aside,Civil they will be to-morrow,And thou thus wilt win thy bride.’Tis the fiddle makes the revel,—Give, then, the musicians gold;Though thou wish them at the devil,Kiss thy aunts-in-law, though old.Give a prince his meed of laurel,Of a woman speak not ill;With thy sausages don’t quarrelWhen thou hast a sow to kill.If the church to thee is hateful,All the more attend its shrine;To the parson be thou grateful,Send him, too, a flask of wine.If an itching chance to teaze thee,Like a man of honour, scratch;If thy shoe be tight and squeeze thee,Slippers get with all despatch.If thy soup has too much seasoning,Be not in an angry mood;Smiling say, instead of reasoning:“Sweet wife, all thou cook’st is good.”If thy wife a wish expressesFor a shawl, straight buy her two;Buy her golden brooches, dresses,Lace and jewels not a few.If thou’lt give this plan a trial,Then, my friend, thou’lt surely gainHeaven to bless thy self-denial,And on earth to peace attain.
Cease thy blushes and thy sorrow,Boldly woo, and, not aside,Civil they will be to-morrow,And thou thus wilt win thy bride.’Tis the fiddle makes the revel,—Give, then, the musicians gold;Though thou wish them at the devil,Kiss thy aunts-in-law, though old.Give a prince his meed of laurel,Of a woman speak not ill;With thy sausages don’t quarrelWhen thou hast a sow to kill.If the church to thee is hateful,All the more attend its shrine;To the parson be thou grateful,Send him, too, a flask of wine.If an itching chance to teaze thee,Like a man of honour, scratch;If thy shoe be tight and squeeze thee,Slippers get with all despatch.If thy soup has too much seasoning,Be not in an angry mood;Smiling say, instead of reasoning:“Sweet wife, all thou cook’st is good.”If thy wife a wish expressesFor a shawl, straight buy her two;Buy her golden brooches, dresses,Lace and jewels not a few.If thou’lt give this plan a trial,Then, my friend, thou’lt surely gainHeaven to bless thy self-denial,And on earth to peace attain.
Cease thy blushes and thy sorrow,Boldly woo, and, not aside,Civil they will be to-morrow,And thou thus wilt win thy bride.
’Tis the fiddle makes the revel,—Give, then, the musicians gold;Though thou wish them at the devil,Kiss thy aunts-in-law, though old.
Give a prince his meed of laurel,Of a woman speak not ill;With thy sausages don’t quarrelWhen thou hast a sow to kill.
If the church to thee is hateful,All the more attend its shrine;To the parson be thou grateful,Send him, too, a flask of wine.
If an itching chance to teaze thee,Like a man of honour, scratch;If thy shoe be tight and squeeze thee,Slippers get with all despatch.
If thy soup has too much seasoning,Be not in an angry mood;Smiling say, instead of reasoning:“Sweet wife, all thou cook’st is good.”
If thy wife a wish expressesFor a shawl, straight buy her two;Buy her golden brooches, dresses,Lace and jewels not a few.
If thou’lt give this plan a trial,Then, my friend, thou’lt surely gainHeaven to bless thy self-denial,And on earth to peace attain.
Orphan children two and two,Wandering gladly on we view,All of them blue coats are wearing,All of them red cheeks are bearing—O the pretty orphan children!All are moved when thus they prattle,And the money boxes rattle;Liberal alms upon them flow,That their secret sires bestow,—O the pretty orphan children!Women of a feeling heartMany a poor child kiss apart,Kiss his driv’lling nose (not pleasant),Give him sweetmeats as a present—O the pretty orphan children!One, with timid face but willing,Throws into the box a shilling,—For he has a heart,—then gailyFollows he his business daily—O the pretty orphan children!One a golden louis-d’orNext bestows, but not beforeHeavenward looking, hoping blindlyThat the Lord will view him kindly—O the pretty orphan children!Porters, coopers, working men,Servants, make to-day againHoliday, and drain their glasses,Drinking to these lads and lasses—O the pretty orphan children!Tutelar HammoniaFollows them incognita;As she moves, her form giganticSways about, in manner frantic—O the pretty orphan children!In the green field where they wentMusic fills the lofty tent,Cover’d o’er with flag and banner;There are fed in sumptuous mannerAll these pretty orphan children.There in lengthy rows they sit,Eating many a nice tit-bit,Tarts and cakes and sweet things crunching,While like little mice they’re munching,—All these pretty orphan children.Now my thoughts to dwell beginOn an orphan-house whereinThere no feasting is or gladness,Where lament in ceaseless sadness,Millions of poor orphan children.There no uniforms are seen,Many want their dinner e’en;No two walk together yonder,Lonely, sorrowfully wanderMany million orphan children.
Orphan children two and two,Wandering gladly on we view,All of them blue coats are wearing,All of them red cheeks are bearing—O the pretty orphan children!All are moved when thus they prattle,And the money boxes rattle;Liberal alms upon them flow,That their secret sires bestow,—O the pretty orphan children!Women of a feeling heartMany a poor child kiss apart,Kiss his driv’lling nose (not pleasant),Give him sweetmeats as a present—O the pretty orphan children!One, with timid face but willing,Throws into the box a shilling,—For he has a heart,—then gailyFollows he his business daily—O the pretty orphan children!One a golden louis-d’orNext bestows, but not beforeHeavenward looking, hoping blindlyThat the Lord will view him kindly—O the pretty orphan children!Porters, coopers, working men,Servants, make to-day againHoliday, and drain their glasses,Drinking to these lads and lasses—O the pretty orphan children!Tutelar HammoniaFollows them incognita;As she moves, her form giganticSways about, in manner frantic—O the pretty orphan children!In the green field where they wentMusic fills the lofty tent,Cover’d o’er with flag and banner;There are fed in sumptuous mannerAll these pretty orphan children.There in lengthy rows they sit,Eating many a nice tit-bit,Tarts and cakes and sweet things crunching,While like little mice they’re munching,—All these pretty orphan children.Now my thoughts to dwell beginOn an orphan-house whereinThere no feasting is or gladness,Where lament in ceaseless sadness,Millions of poor orphan children.There no uniforms are seen,Many want their dinner e’en;No two walk together yonder,Lonely, sorrowfully wanderMany million orphan children.
Orphan children two and two,Wandering gladly on we view,All of them blue coats are wearing,All of them red cheeks are bearing—O the pretty orphan children!
All are moved when thus they prattle,And the money boxes rattle;Liberal alms upon them flow,That their secret sires bestow,—O the pretty orphan children!
Women of a feeling heartMany a poor child kiss apart,Kiss his driv’lling nose (not pleasant),Give him sweetmeats as a present—O the pretty orphan children!
One, with timid face but willing,Throws into the box a shilling,—For he has a heart,—then gailyFollows he his business daily—O the pretty orphan children!
One a golden louis-d’orNext bestows, but not beforeHeavenward looking, hoping blindlyThat the Lord will view him kindly—O the pretty orphan children!
Porters, coopers, working men,Servants, make to-day againHoliday, and drain their glasses,Drinking to these lads and lasses—O the pretty orphan children!
Tutelar HammoniaFollows them incognita;As she moves, her form giganticSways about, in manner frantic—O the pretty orphan children!
In the green field where they wentMusic fills the lofty tent,Cover’d o’er with flag and banner;There are fed in sumptuous mannerAll these pretty orphan children.
There in lengthy rows they sit,Eating many a nice tit-bit,Tarts and cakes and sweet things crunching,While like little mice they’re munching,—All these pretty orphan children.
Now my thoughts to dwell beginOn an orphan-house whereinThere no feasting is or gladness,Where lament in ceaseless sadness,Millions of poor orphan children.
There no uniforms are seen,Many want their dinner e’en;No two walk together yonder,Lonely, sorrowfully wanderMany million orphan children.
While Laura’s arm, with tender feeling,Embraced me on the couch, the foxHer worthy husband from my boxMy banknotes quietly was stealing.My pockets now have got no cash in!Was Laura’s kiss a simple lie?Ah! what is truth? In days gone byThus Pilate ask’d, his hands while washing.This evil world, decay’d and rotten,I soon shall ne’er again behold;I see that he who has no goldWill very soon be quite forgotten.For you, pure souls, whose habitationIn yonder realms of light I see,My bosom yearns. No wants have ye,So stealing is not your vocation.
While Laura’s arm, with tender feeling,Embraced me on the couch, the foxHer worthy husband from my boxMy banknotes quietly was stealing.My pockets now have got no cash in!Was Laura’s kiss a simple lie?Ah! what is truth? In days gone byThus Pilate ask’d, his hands while washing.This evil world, decay’d and rotten,I soon shall ne’er again behold;I see that he who has no goldWill very soon be quite forgotten.For you, pure souls, whose habitationIn yonder realms of light I see,My bosom yearns. No wants have ye,So stealing is not your vocation.
While Laura’s arm, with tender feeling,Embraced me on the couch, the foxHer worthy husband from my boxMy banknotes quietly was stealing.
My pockets now have got no cash in!Was Laura’s kiss a simple lie?Ah! what is truth? In days gone byThus Pilate ask’d, his hands while washing.
This evil world, decay’d and rotten,I soon shall ne’er again behold;I see that he who has no goldWill very soon be quite forgotten.
For you, pure souls, whose habitationIn yonder realms of light I see,My bosom yearns. No wants have ye,So stealing is not your vocation.
The philharmonic young cats’ clubUpon the roof was collectedTo-night, but not for sensual joys,No wrong could there be detected.No summer night’s wedding dream there was dreamt,No song of love did they utterIn the winter season, in frost and snow,For frozen was every gutter.A newborn spirit hath recentlyCome over the whole cat-nation,But chiefly the young, and the young cat feelsMore earnest with inspiration.The frivolous generation of oldIs extinct, and a newborn yearning,A pussy-springtime of poetryIn art and in life they’re learning.The philharmonic young cats’ clubIs now returning to artlessAnd primitive music, and naïveté,From modern fashions all heartless.It seeks in music for poetry,Roulades with the quavers omittedIt seeks for poetry, music-void,For voice and instrument fitted.It seeks for genius’s sovereign sway,Which often bungles truly,Yet oft in art unconsciouslyAttains the highest stage duly.It honours the genius which prefersDame Nature to keep at a distance,And will not show off its learning,—in factIts learning not having existence.This is the programme of our cat club,And with these intentions elated,It holds its first winter concert to-nightOn the roof, as before I have stated.Yet sad was the execution, alas!Of this great idea so splendid;I’m sorry, my dear friend Berlioz,That by thee it wasn’t attended.It was a charivari, as thoughWith brandy elated greatly,Three dozen pipers struck up the tuneThat the poor cow died of lately.It was an utter medley, as thoughIn Noah’s ark were beginningThe whole of the beasts in unisonThe Deluge to tell of in singing,O what a croaking, snarling, and noise!O what a mewing and yelling!And even the chimneys all join’d in,The wonderful chorus swelling.And loudest of all was heard a voiceWhich sounded languid and shriekingAs Sontag’s voice became at the last,When utterly broken and squeaking.The whimsical concert! Methinks that theyA grand Te Deum were chanting,To honour the triumph o’er reason obtain’dBy commonest frenzy and canting.Perchance moreover the young cats’ clubThe opera grand were essayingThat the greatest pianist of Hungary[89]Composed for Charenton’s playing.It was not till the break of dayThat an end was put to the party;A cook was in consequence brought to bedWho before had seem’d well and hearty.The lying-in woman lost her wits,Her memory, too, was affected,And who was the father of her childNo longer she recollected.Say, was it Peter? Say, was it Paul?Say who is the father, Eliza!“O Liszt, thou heavenly cat!” she said,And simper’d and look’d the wiser.
The philharmonic young cats’ clubUpon the roof was collectedTo-night, but not for sensual joys,No wrong could there be detected.No summer night’s wedding dream there was dreamt,No song of love did they utterIn the winter season, in frost and snow,For frozen was every gutter.A newborn spirit hath recentlyCome over the whole cat-nation,But chiefly the young, and the young cat feelsMore earnest with inspiration.The frivolous generation of oldIs extinct, and a newborn yearning,A pussy-springtime of poetryIn art and in life they’re learning.The philharmonic young cats’ clubIs now returning to artlessAnd primitive music, and naïveté,From modern fashions all heartless.It seeks in music for poetry,Roulades with the quavers omittedIt seeks for poetry, music-void,For voice and instrument fitted.It seeks for genius’s sovereign sway,Which often bungles truly,Yet oft in art unconsciouslyAttains the highest stage duly.It honours the genius which prefersDame Nature to keep at a distance,And will not show off its learning,—in factIts learning not having existence.This is the programme of our cat club,And with these intentions elated,It holds its first winter concert to-nightOn the roof, as before I have stated.Yet sad was the execution, alas!Of this great idea so splendid;I’m sorry, my dear friend Berlioz,That by thee it wasn’t attended.It was a charivari, as thoughWith brandy elated greatly,Three dozen pipers struck up the tuneThat the poor cow died of lately.It was an utter medley, as thoughIn Noah’s ark were beginningThe whole of the beasts in unisonThe Deluge to tell of in singing,O what a croaking, snarling, and noise!O what a mewing and yelling!And even the chimneys all join’d in,The wonderful chorus swelling.And loudest of all was heard a voiceWhich sounded languid and shriekingAs Sontag’s voice became at the last,When utterly broken and squeaking.The whimsical concert! Methinks that theyA grand Te Deum were chanting,To honour the triumph o’er reason obtain’dBy commonest frenzy and canting.Perchance moreover the young cats’ clubThe opera grand were essayingThat the greatest pianist of Hungary[89]Composed for Charenton’s playing.It was not till the break of dayThat an end was put to the party;A cook was in consequence brought to bedWho before had seem’d well and hearty.The lying-in woman lost her wits,Her memory, too, was affected,And who was the father of her childNo longer she recollected.Say, was it Peter? Say, was it Paul?Say who is the father, Eliza!“O Liszt, thou heavenly cat!” she said,And simper’d and look’d the wiser.
The philharmonic young cats’ clubUpon the roof was collectedTo-night, but not for sensual joys,No wrong could there be detected.
No summer night’s wedding dream there was dreamt,No song of love did they utterIn the winter season, in frost and snow,For frozen was every gutter.
A newborn spirit hath recentlyCome over the whole cat-nation,But chiefly the young, and the young cat feelsMore earnest with inspiration.
The frivolous generation of oldIs extinct, and a newborn yearning,A pussy-springtime of poetryIn art and in life they’re learning.
The philharmonic young cats’ clubIs now returning to artlessAnd primitive music, and naïveté,From modern fashions all heartless.
It seeks in music for poetry,Roulades with the quavers omittedIt seeks for poetry, music-void,For voice and instrument fitted.
It seeks for genius’s sovereign sway,Which often bungles truly,Yet oft in art unconsciouslyAttains the highest stage duly.
It honours the genius which prefersDame Nature to keep at a distance,And will not show off its learning,—in factIts learning not having existence.
This is the programme of our cat club,And with these intentions elated,It holds its first winter concert to-nightOn the roof, as before I have stated.
Yet sad was the execution, alas!Of this great idea so splendid;I’m sorry, my dear friend Berlioz,That by thee it wasn’t attended.
It was a charivari, as thoughWith brandy elated greatly,Three dozen pipers struck up the tuneThat the poor cow died of lately.
It was an utter medley, as thoughIn Noah’s ark were beginningThe whole of the beasts in unisonThe Deluge to tell of in singing,
O what a croaking, snarling, and noise!O what a mewing and yelling!And even the chimneys all join’d in,The wonderful chorus swelling.
And loudest of all was heard a voiceWhich sounded languid and shriekingAs Sontag’s voice became at the last,When utterly broken and squeaking.
The whimsical concert! Methinks that theyA grand Te Deum were chanting,To honour the triumph o’er reason obtain’dBy commonest frenzy and canting.
Perchance moreover the young cats’ clubThe opera grand were essayingThat the greatest pianist of Hungary[89]Composed for Charenton’s playing.
It was not till the break of dayThat an end was put to the party;A cook was in consequence brought to bedWho before had seem’d well and hearty.
The lying-in woman lost her wits,Her memory, too, was affected,And who was the father of her childNo longer she recollected.
Say, was it Peter? Say, was it Paul?Say who is the father, Eliza!“O Liszt, thou heavenly cat!” she said,And simper’d and look’d the wiser.
Farewell, my wife, said Lack-Land Hans,A lofty object elates me;Far different goats I now must shoot,Far different game awaits me.I’ll leave thee behind my hunting horn,Thou canst in my absence daily,.Play merrily on it, for thou hast learntTo blow on the post-horn gaily.I’ll also leave thee behind my hound,To be the castle’s defender;My German folk, like faithful dogs,Will guard me and never surrender.They offer me the imperial throne,Their affection is almost provokingMy image is graven on every heart,And every pipe they are smoking.Ye Germans are a wonderful race,So simple and yet so clever;One forgets that gunpowder, but for you,Had been discover’d never.Your emperor,—no, your father I’ll be,Your welfare shall be my sole glory—O blissful thought! it makes me as proudAs the Gracchi’s mother in story.I’ll govern my people by feeling alone,And not by the light of mere reason;I never could bear diplomacy,And politics hate like treason.A huntsman am I, and Nature’s own child,Who had in the forest my training,With chamois and snipe and roebuck and boar,—A foe to all nonsense and feigning.By proclamations I never enticed,No printed pamphlet invented;I say: “My people, the salmon’s all gone,“With cod for to-day be contented.“If I don’t please you as Emperor, take“The first donkey that comes about you;“I had, when I lived in the Tyrol, no lack,“I’ve plenty to eat without you.”Thus speak I, but now, my wife, farewell,I must end my long discourses;My father-in-law’s postilion’s outside,Awaiting me with the horses.Quick, hand me over my travelling cap,With the ribbon all black-red-golden;Thou’lt see me soon with the diadem,In the dress imperial and olden.Thou’lt see me in the Pluvial too,The purple robe so glorious,The gift of the Saracen Sultan erstTo Otto, the Cæsar victorious.Beneath, I shall wear the Dalmatian dress,Whereon, in each species of jewel,A train of lions and camels is work’d,And fabulous monsters and cruel.Upon my breast the stole I shall wear,Significantly blendedWith eagles black on a yellow ground,—The garment is really splendid.Farewell! Posterity shall sayI reign’d with honest intention.—Who knows? Posterity perchanceMy name will never mention.
Farewell, my wife, said Lack-Land Hans,A lofty object elates me;Far different goats I now must shoot,Far different game awaits me.I’ll leave thee behind my hunting horn,Thou canst in my absence daily,.Play merrily on it, for thou hast learntTo blow on the post-horn gaily.I’ll also leave thee behind my hound,To be the castle’s defender;My German folk, like faithful dogs,Will guard me and never surrender.They offer me the imperial throne,Their affection is almost provokingMy image is graven on every heart,And every pipe they are smoking.Ye Germans are a wonderful race,So simple and yet so clever;One forgets that gunpowder, but for you,Had been discover’d never.Your emperor,—no, your father I’ll be,Your welfare shall be my sole glory—O blissful thought! it makes me as proudAs the Gracchi’s mother in story.I’ll govern my people by feeling alone,And not by the light of mere reason;I never could bear diplomacy,And politics hate like treason.A huntsman am I, and Nature’s own child,Who had in the forest my training,With chamois and snipe and roebuck and boar,—A foe to all nonsense and feigning.By proclamations I never enticed,No printed pamphlet invented;I say: “My people, the salmon’s all gone,“With cod for to-day be contented.“If I don’t please you as Emperor, take“The first donkey that comes about you;“I had, when I lived in the Tyrol, no lack,“I’ve plenty to eat without you.”Thus speak I, but now, my wife, farewell,I must end my long discourses;My father-in-law’s postilion’s outside,Awaiting me with the horses.Quick, hand me over my travelling cap,With the ribbon all black-red-golden;Thou’lt see me soon with the diadem,In the dress imperial and olden.Thou’lt see me in the Pluvial too,The purple robe so glorious,The gift of the Saracen Sultan erstTo Otto, the Cæsar victorious.Beneath, I shall wear the Dalmatian dress,Whereon, in each species of jewel,A train of lions and camels is work’d,And fabulous monsters and cruel.Upon my breast the stole I shall wear,Significantly blendedWith eagles black on a yellow ground,—The garment is really splendid.Farewell! Posterity shall sayI reign’d with honest intention.—Who knows? Posterity perchanceMy name will never mention.
Farewell, my wife, said Lack-Land Hans,A lofty object elates me;Far different goats I now must shoot,Far different game awaits me.
I’ll leave thee behind my hunting horn,Thou canst in my absence daily,.Play merrily on it, for thou hast learntTo blow on the post-horn gaily.
I’ll also leave thee behind my hound,To be the castle’s defender;My German folk, like faithful dogs,Will guard me and never surrender.
They offer me the imperial throne,Their affection is almost provokingMy image is graven on every heart,And every pipe they are smoking.
Ye Germans are a wonderful race,So simple and yet so clever;One forgets that gunpowder, but for you,Had been discover’d never.
Your emperor,—no, your father I’ll be,Your welfare shall be my sole glory—O blissful thought! it makes me as proudAs the Gracchi’s mother in story.
I’ll govern my people by feeling alone,And not by the light of mere reason;I never could bear diplomacy,And politics hate like treason.
A huntsman am I, and Nature’s own child,Who had in the forest my training,With chamois and snipe and roebuck and boar,—A foe to all nonsense and feigning.
By proclamations I never enticed,No printed pamphlet invented;I say: “My people, the salmon’s all gone,“With cod for to-day be contented.
“If I don’t please you as Emperor, take“The first donkey that comes about you;“I had, when I lived in the Tyrol, no lack,“I’ve plenty to eat without you.”
Thus speak I, but now, my wife, farewell,I must end my long discourses;My father-in-law’s postilion’s outside,Awaiting me with the horses.
Quick, hand me over my travelling cap,With the ribbon all black-red-golden;Thou’lt see me soon with the diadem,In the dress imperial and olden.
Thou’lt see me in the Pluvial too,The purple robe so glorious,The gift of the Saracen Sultan erstTo Otto, the Cæsar victorious.
Beneath, I shall wear the Dalmatian dress,Whereon, in each species of jewel,A train of lions and camels is work’d,And fabulous monsters and cruel.
Upon my breast the stole I shall wear,Significantly blendedWith eagles black on a yellow ground,—The garment is really splendid.
Farewell! Posterity shall sayI reign’d with honest intention.—Who knows? Posterity perchanceMy name will never mention.
We, mayor and senate of the town,The following orders now lay downTo all who love their city truly,Enjoining them to keep them duly.’Tis foreigners and strangers mostWho their rebellious spirit boast;Thank God, such rogues (to put it fairly)The children of the soil are rarely.The Atheists likewise are concern’d;For he by whom his God is spurn’dIs sure at last to hold detestedAll those on earth with power invested.Christian and Jew, at close of day,Must shut their shops without delay;“Obey your rulers” should be everBoth Jew and Christian’s first endeavour.No person shall be seen at nightIn any street without a light;Where three or more in groups are standing,Let them at once begin disbanding.Each one must bring his weapons all,And lay them down in the guildhall;And every kind of ammunitionIs subject to the same condition.He who in any public spotVentures to reason, shall be shot;He who by gestures dares to reasonShall pay the penalty of treason.Confide in the authorities,So gracious, but withal so wise,Who rule the fortunes of the city,And hold your tongues, or more’s the pity.
We, mayor and senate of the town,The following orders now lay downTo all who love their city truly,Enjoining them to keep them duly.’Tis foreigners and strangers mostWho their rebellious spirit boast;Thank God, such rogues (to put it fairly)The children of the soil are rarely.The Atheists likewise are concern’d;For he by whom his God is spurn’dIs sure at last to hold detestedAll those on earth with power invested.Christian and Jew, at close of day,Must shut their shops without delay;“Obey your rulers” should be everBoth Jew and Christian’s first endeavour.No person shall be seen at nightIn any street without a light;Where three or more in groups are standing,Let them at once begin disbanding.Each one must bring his weapons all,And lay them down in the guildhall;And every kind of ammunitionIs subject to the same condition.He who in any public spotVentures to reason, shall be shot;He who by gestures dares to reasonShall pay the penalty of treason.Confide in the authorities,So gracious, but withal so wise,Who rule the fortunes of the city,And hold your tongues, or more’s the pity.
We, mayor and senate of the town,The following orders now lay downTo all who love their city truly,Enjoining them to keep them duly.
’Tis foreigners and strangers mostWho their rebellious spirit boast;Thank God, such rogues (to put it fairly)The children of the soil are rarely.
The Atheists likewise are concern’d;For he by whom his God is spurn’dIs sure at last to hold detestedAll those on earth with power invested.
Christian and Jew, at close of day,Must shut their shops without delay;“Obey your rulers” should be everBoth Jew and Christian’s first endeavour.
No person shall be seen at nightIn any street without a light;Where three or more in groups are standing,Let them at once begin disbanding.
Each one must bring his weapons all,And lay them down in the guildhall;And every kind of ammunitionIs subject to the same condition.
He who in any public spotVentures to reason, shall be shot;He who by gestures dares to reasonShall pay the penalty of treason.
Confide in the authorities,So gracious, but withal so wise,Who rule the fortunes of the city,And hold your tongues, or more’s the pity.
(An old Fable.)
“I’ll let not my children, like Pharaoh, be drown’d“In the Nile’s deep turbulent water;“Nor am I a tyrant, like Herod of old,“No patron of children’s slaughter.“I will, as my gracious Saviour did,“Find the sight of the children pleasant;“So suffer the children to come, and first“The big one, the Swabian peasant.”Thus spake the monarch; the chamberlain ran,And return’d, introducing slowlyThe stalwart child from Swabia’s land,Who made a reverence lowly.Thus spake the king: “A Swabian art thou?“There’s no disgrace in that surely.”—“Quite right! I was born in Swabia’s land,”Replied the Swabian demurely.“Art thou from the seven Swabians sprung?”Ask’d the other.—“In truth I’m descended“From one of them only,” the Swabian replied,“And not from the whole of them blended.”The king then ask’d: “Are dumplings this year“In Swabia as usual eaten?”—“I’m obliged for the question,” the Swabian rejoin’d,“They are not easily beaten.”“And do ye still boast big men?” next saidThe monarch.—“Why, just at present“The big ones are scarce, but in their place“We’ve fat ones,” answer’d the peasant.“Has Menzel,” added the king, “received“On his ear many boxes lately?”“I’m obliged for the question,” the Swabian said,“The former ones punish’d him greatly.”The king then said, “Thou’rt not such a fool,“My friend, as thou fain wouldst persuade me.”“That’s because I was changed in my cradle,” said he,“By the cobolds, who different made me.”The king then spake: “The Swabians are wont“To love their fatherland dearly;“So why hast thou left thy native home?“Explain the reason clearly.”The Swabian replied: “Each day I had nought“But turnips and sour-crout ever;“And had my mother but cook’d me meat,“I had left my fatherland never.”“One wish I will grant thee,” the monarch then said—Then the Swabian in deep supplicationKnelt down and exclaim’d: “O, Sire, pray grant“Their freedom once more to the nation.“Freeborn is man, and Nature ne’er meant“That he as a slave should perish;“O, Sire, restore to the German folk“The rights that they manfully cherish!”The monarch in deep amazement stood,The scene was really enthralling;With his sleeve the Swabian wiped from his eyeThe tear that was wellnigh falling.At last said the king: “In truth a fine dream!“Farewell, and pray learn more discretion;“And as a somnambulist plainly thou art,“Of thy person I’ll give the possession“To two trusty gendarmes, whose duty ’twill be“To see thee safe over the border—“Farewell! I must hasten to join the parade,“The drums are beating to order.”And so this affecting audience cameTo a most affecting conclusion.But from that moment the monarch allow’dNo more of his children’s intrusion.[90]
“I’ll let not my children, like Pharaoh, be drown’d“In the Nile’s deep turbulent water;“Nor am I a tyrant, like Herod of old,“No patron of children’s slaughter.“I will, as my gracious Saviour did,“Find the sight of the children pleasant;“So suffer the children to come, and first“The big one, the Swabian peasant.”Thus spake the monarch; the chamberlain ran,And return’d, introducing slowlyThe stalwart child from Swabia’s land,Who made a reverence lowly.Thus spake the king: “A Swabian art thou?“There’s no disgrace in that surely.”—“Quite right! I was born in Swabia’s land,”Replied the Swabian demurely.“Art thou from the seven Swabians sprung?”Ask’d the other.—“In truth I’m descended“From one of them only,” the Swabian replied,“And not from the whole of them blended.”The king then ask’d: “Are dumplings this year“In Swabia as usual eaten?”—“I’m obliged for the question,” the Swabian rejoin’d,“They are not easily beaten.”“And do ye still boast big men?” next saidThe monarch.—“Why, just at present“The big ones are scarce, but in their place“We’ve fat ones,” answer’d the peasant.“Has Menzel,” added the king, “received“On his ear many boxes lately?”“I’m obliged for the question,” the Swabian said,“The former ones punish’d him greatly.”The king then said, “Thou’rt not such a fool,“My friend, as thou fain wouldst persuade me.”“That’s because I was changed in my cradle,” said he,“By the cobolds, who different made me.”The king then spake: “The Swabians are wont“To love their fatherland dearly;“So why hast thou left thy native home?“Explain the reason clearly.”The Swabian replied: “Each day I had nought“But turnips and sour-crout ever;“And had my mother but cook’d me meat,“I had left my fatherland never.”“One wish I will grant thee,” the monarch then said—Then the Swabian in deep supplicationKnelt down and exclaim’d: “O, Sire, pray grant“Their freedom once more to the nation.“Freeborn is man, and Nature ne’er meant“That he as a slave should perish;“O, Sire, restore to the German folk“The rights that they manfully cherish!”The monarch in deep amazement stood,The scene was really enthralling;With his sleeve the Swabian wiped from his eyeThe tear that was wellnigh falling.At last said the king: “In truth a fine dream!“Farewell, and pray learn more discretion;“And as a somnambulist plainly thou art,“Of thy person I’ll give the possession“To two trusty gendarmes, whose duty ’twill be“To see thee safe over the border—“Farewell! I must hasten to join the parade,“The drums are beating to order.”And so this affecting audience cameTo a most affecting conclusion.But from that moment the monarch allow’dNo more of his children’s intrusion.[90]
“I’ll let not my children, like Pharaoh, be drown’d“In the Nile’s deep turbulent water;“Nor am I a tyrant, like Herod of old,“No patron of children’s slaughter.
“I will, as my gracious Saviour did,“Find the sight of the children pleasant;“So suffer the children to come, and first“The big one, the Swabian peasant.”
Thus spake the monarch; the chamberlain ran,And return’d, introducing slowlyThe stalwart child from Swabia’s land,Who made a reverence lowly.
Thus spake the king: “A Swabian art thou?“There’s no disgrace in that surely.”—“Quite right! I was born in Swabia’s land,”Replied the Swabian demurely.
“Art thou from the seven Swabians sprung?”Ask’d the other.—“In truth I’m descended“From one of them only,” the Swabian replied,“And not from the whole of them blended.”
The king then ask’d: “Are dumplings this year“In Swabia as usual eaten?”—“I’m obliged for the question,” the Swabian rejoin’d,“They are not easily beaten.”
“And do ye still boast big men?” next saidThe monarch.—“Why, just at present“The big ones are scarce, but in their place“We’ve fat ones,” answer’d the peasant.
“Has Menzel,” added the king, “received“On his ear many boxes lately?”“I’m obliged for the question,” the Swabian said,“The former ones punish’d him greatly.”
The king then said, “Thou’rt not such a fool,“My friend, as thou fain wouldst persuade me.”“That’s because I was changed in my cradle,” said he,“By the cobolds, who different made me.”
The king then spake: “The Swabians are wont“To love their fatherland dearly;“So why hast thou left thy native home?“Explain the reason clearly.”
The Swabian replied: “Each day I had nought“But turnips and sour-crout ever;“And had my mother but cook’d me meat,“I had left my fatherland never.”
“One wish I will grant thee,” the monarch then said—Then the Swabian in deep supplicationKnelt down and exclaim’d: “O, Sire, pray grant“Their freedom once more to the nation.
“Freeborn is man, and Nature ne’er meant“That he as a slave should perish;“O, Sire, restore to the German folk“The rights that they manfully cherish!”
The monarch in deep amazement stood,The scene was really enthralling;With his sleeve the Swabian wiped from his eyeThe tear that was wellnigh falling.
At last said the king: “In truth a fine dream!“Farewell, and pray learn more discretion;“And as a somnambulist plainly thou art,“Of thy person I’ll give the possession
“To two trusty gendarmes, whose duty ’twill be“To see thee safe over the border—“Farewell! I must hasten to join the parade,“The drums are beating to order.”
And so this affecting audience cameTo a most affecting conclusion.But from that moment the monarch allow’dNo more of his children’s intrusion.[90]
In eighteen hundred and forty-eight,When passions men’s minds were heating,The German nation’s parliamentAt Frankfort held its meeting.Just at this time, in the Senate-houseAppear’d the white lady ghostly,The spectre that heralds the coming of woe,—They call her the Housekeeper mostly.By night they say in the Senate-houseShe is wont to make her appearance,Whenever the Germans their foolish tricks playWith extra perseverance.I saw her myself at the selfsame timeAs she roam’d in the hours of slumberThrough the silent chambers, wherein were piledThe middle ages’ old lumber.She held the lamp and a bunch of keysIn her hands so pale and sickly;She open’d the presses against the walls,And the chests strew’d around her thickly.There lie the imperial insignia all,There lies the bull all-golden,The sceptre, the regal apple, the crown,And more of such fancies olden.There lie the ancient imperial robes,The purple frippery faded,The German kingdom’s wardrobe in fact,Now rusted and rot-pervaded.The Housekeeper mournfully shakes her headAt the sight, then with deep displeasureShe suddenly cries at the top of her voice:“The whole of them stink beyond measure!“The whole of them stink with mice’s dung“And rotten and mouldy’s the ermine;“And all the gaudy trumpery work“Is swarming with noxious vermin.“In truth, on this splendid ermine dress,“Once used at the coronation,“The cats of the Senate-house district are wont“To lie, as their lying-in station.“’Tis useless to clean them; I pity the fate“Of the Emperor next elected;“By the fleas in his coronation robe“His health will be surely affected.“And know ye, that all the people must scratch,“Whenever the Emperor itches—“O Germans, I dread the princely fleas“Who swallow up much of your riches.“Yet what is the use of monarch and fleas?“For rusty are now and all rotten“The olden costumes—By modern days“Are the ancient dresses forgotten.“The German poet at Kyffhauser said“To Barbarossa quite truly:“‘I find that we want no Emperor now,“When I weigh the matter duly.’“But if, spite of all, ye an empire must have,“With an Emperor reigning o’er ye,“My worthy Germans, don’t suffer yourselves“To be snared by genius or glory.“Choose one of the people your monarch to be,“All sons of the nobles reject ye;“Select not the lion, select not the fox,“The dullest of sheep elect ye.“Elect as your Monarch Colonia’s son,“The crown to dull Kobes awarding;“The genius of Dulness well-nigh is he,“His people he’ll ne’er be defrauding.“A log is ever the best of kings,“As Esop has shown in the fable;“He cannot devour us poor frogs up,“As the stork with his long bill is able.“Be sure that Kobes no tyrant will be,“No Holofernes or Nero;“He boasts no terrible antique heart,“A soft modern heart has our hero.“Though vulgar pride might scorn such a heart“Yet in the arms of the helot“Of work the unfortunate threw himself,“Becoming a regular zealot.“The men of the journeymen’sBurschenschaft“As president Kobes elected;“He shared with them their last piece of bread,“They held him vastly respected.“They boasted that he in all his life“Had never been at college,“And out of his head composed his books“By the light of intuitive knowledge.“Yes, his consummate ignorance“Was the fruit of his own endeavour;“With foreign wisdom and training he“Had injured his intellect never.“From abstract philosophy’s influence he“Kept likewise his thoughts and his spirit“Entirely free.—Himself he remain’d!“Yes, Kobes has really his merit!“The tear of the usual stereotype form“In his beautiful eye is gleaming,“And from his lips incessantly“The grossest stupidity’s streaming.“He prates and he grins, and he grins and prates,“His words with long ears are provided;“A pregnant woman who heard him speak“Gave birth to a donkey decided.“With scribbling books and knitting he’s wont“His idle hours to flavour;“The stockings that he with his own hands knit“Have met with particular favour.“To devote himself wholly to knitting he’s begg’d“By Apollo and all the Muses;“They’re frighten’d whenever they see that his hand“A goose-quill laboriously uses.“His knitting recals the olden time“Of the Funken,[91]—who all stood knitting“While mounting guard,—these men of Cologne“No means of amusement omitting.“If Kobes is Emp’ror, he’ll surely recal“To life these Funken deserving;“The valiant band will surround his throne,“As the guard imperial serving.“He well might be glad to go at their head,“And march over France’s borders,“And Alsace, Lorraine, and Burgundy fair“Bring under Germany’s orders.“Yet be not afraid, at home he’ll remain,“Intent on a scheme long suspended,“A lofty idea, the completion, in fact,“Of Cologne Cathedral so splendid.“But when the Cathedral’s quite complete,“Then Kobes will get in a passion,“And sword in hand, will bring the French“To account in a regular fashion.“He’ll take Alsace and Lorraine away“(By France from the empire estreated);“To Burgundy, too, he’ll triumphantly go,“When once the Cathedral’s completed.“Ye Germans, pray lose not your senses quite,“If an Emperor’s needed, I’ll name him;“The Carnival King of Cologne let it be,“As Kobes the First now proclaim him!“The fools of the Carnival rout at Cologne,“With caps and bells ringing and mocking,“Shall be his ministers of state,“His scutcheon a knitted stocking.“Let Drickes be Chancellor, calling himself“Count Drickes of Drickeshausen,“And Marizebill the Mistress of State,“With the Emperor fondly carousing.[92]“Within his good sacred town of Cologne“Will be Kobes’s habitation;“And when the Cologners hear the glad news,“They’ll have an illumination.“The bells, the iron dogs of the air,“Into joyous barks will be breaking,“And the three holy kings from the land of the East“In their chapel will soon be awaking.“They’ll step outside with their clattering bones,“All dancing with rapture and springing;“I hear them the Hallelujah’s strains“And Kyrie Eleison singing.”—Thus spoke the dread white nightly ghostWith loud uproarious laughter;Through all the resounding halls of the placeThe echo rang wildly long after.
In eighteen hundred and forty-eight,When passions men’s minds were heating,The German nation’s parliamentAt Frankfort held its meeting.Just at this time, in the Senate-houseAppear’d the white lady ghostly,The spectre that heralds the coming of woe,—They call her the Housekeeper mostly.By night they say in the Senate-houseShe is wont to make her appearance,Whenever the Germans their foolish tricks playWith extra perseverance.I saw her myself at the selfsame timeAs she roam’d in the hours of slumberThrough the silent chambers, wherein were piledThe middle ages’ old lumber.She held the lamp and a bunch of keysIn her hands so pale and sickly;She open’d the presses against the walls,And the chests strew’d around her thickly.There lie the imperial insignia all,There lies the bull all-golden,The sceptre, the regal apple, the crown,And more of such fancies olden.There lie the ancient imperial robes,The purple frippery faded,The German kingdom’s wardrobe in fact,Now rusted and rot-pervaded.The Housekeeper mournfully shakes her headAt the sight, then with deep displeasureShe suddenly cries at the top of her voice:“The whole of them stink beyond measure!“The whole of them stink with mice’s dung“And rotten and mouldy’s the ermine;“And all the gaudy trumpery work“Is swarming with noxious vermin.“In truth, on this splendid ermine dress,“Once used at the coronation,“The cats of the Senate-house district are wont“To lie, as their lying-in station.“’Tis useless to clean them; I pity the fate“Of the Emperor next elected;“By the fleas in his coronation robe“His health will be surely affected.“And know ye, that all the people must scratch,“Whenever the Emperor itches—“O Germans, I dread the princely fleas“Who swallow up much of your riches.“Yet what is the use of monarch and fleas?“For rusty are now and all rotten“The olden costumes—By modern days“Are the ancient dresses forgotten.“The German poet at Kyffhauser said“To Barbarossa quite truly:“‘I find that we want no Emperor now,“When I weigh the matter duly.’“But if, spite of all, ye an empire must have,“With an Emperor reigning o’er ye,“My worthy Germans, don’t suffer yourselves“To be snared by genius or glory.“Choose one of the people your monarch to be,“All sons of the nobles reject ye;“Select not the lion, select not the fox,“The dullest of sheep elect ye.“Elect as your Monarch Colonia’s son,“The crown to dull Kobes awarding;“The genius of Dulness well-nigh is he,“His people he’ll ne’er be defrauding.“A log is ever the best of kings,“As Esop has shown in the fable;“He cannot devour us poor frogs up,“As the stork with his long bill is able.“Be sure that Kobes no tyrant will be,“No Holofernes or Nero;“He boasts no terrible antique heart,“A soft modern heart has our hero.“Though vulgar pride might scorn such a heart“Yet in the arms of the helot“Of work the unfortunate threw himself,“Becoming a regular zealot.“The men of the journeymen’sBurschenschaft“As president Kobes elected;“He shared with them their last piece of bread,“They held him vastly respected.“They boasted that he in all his life“Had never been at college,“And out of his head composed his books“By the light of intuitive knowledge.“Yes, his consummate ignorance“Was the fruit of his own endeavour;“With foreign wisdom and training he“Had injured his intellect never.“From abstract philosophy’s influence he“Kept likewise his thoughts and his spirit“Entirely free.—Himself he remain’d!“Yes, Kobes has really his merit!“The tear of the usual stereotype form“In his beautiful eye is gleaming,“And from his lips incessantly“The grossest stupidity’s streaming.“He prates and he grins, and he grins and prates,“His words with long ears are provided;“A pregnant woman who heard him speak“Gave birth to a donkey decided.“With scribbling books and knitting he’s wont“His idle hours to flavour;“The stockings that he with his own hands knit“Have met with particular favour.“To devote himself wholly to knitting he’s begg’d“By Apollo and all the Muses;“They’re frighten’d whenever they see that his hand“A goose-quill laboriously uses.“His knitting recals the olden time“Of the Funken,[91]—who all stood knitting“While mounting guard,—these men of Cologne“No means of amusement omitting.“If Kobes is Emp’ror, he’ll surely recal“To life these Funken deserving;“The valiant band will surround his throne,“As the guard imperial serving.“He well might be glad to go at their head,“And march over France’s borders,“And Alsace, Lorraine, and Burgundy fair“Bring under Germany’s orders.“Yet be not afraid, at home he’ll remain,“Intent on a scheme long suspended,“A lofty idea, the completion, in fact,“Of Cologne Cathedral so splendid.“But when the Cathedral’s quite complete,“Then Kobes will get in a passion,“And sword in hand, will bring the French“To account in a regular fashion.“He’ll take Alsace and Lorraine away“(By France from the empire estreated);“To Burgundy, too, he’ll triumphantly go,“When once the Cathedral’s completed.“Ye Germans, pray lose not your senses quite,“If an Emperor’s needed, I’ll name him;“The Carnival King of Cologne let it be,“As Kobes the First now proclaim him!“The fools of the Carnival rout at Cologne,“With caps and bells ringing and mocking,“Shall be his ministers of state,“His scutcheon a knitted stocking.“Let Drickes be Chancellor, calling himself“Count Drickes of Drickeshausen,“And Marizebill the Mistress of State,“With the Emperor fondly carousing.[92]“Within his good sacred town of Cologne“Will be Kobes’s habitation;“And when the Cologners hear the glad news,“They’ll have an illumination.“The bells, the iron dogs of the air,“Into joyous barks will be breaking,“And the three holy kings from the land of the East“In their chapel will soon be awaking.“They’ll step outside with their clattering bones,“All dancing with rapture and springing;“I hear them the Hallelujah’s strains“And Kyrie Eleison singing.”—Thus spoke the dread white nightly ghostWith loud uproarious laughter;Through all the resounding halls of the placeThe echo rang wildly long after.
In eighteen hundred and forty-eight,When passions men’s minds were heating,The German nation’s parliamentAt Frankfort held its meeting.
Just at this time, in the Senate-houseAppear’d the white lady ghostly,The spectre that heralds the coming of woe,—They call her the Housekeeper mostly.
By night they say in the Senate-houseShe is wont to make her appearance,Whenever the Germans their foolish tricks playWith extra perseverance.
I saw her myself at the selfsame timeAs she roam’d in the hours of slumberThrough the silent chambers, wherein were piledThe middle ages’ old lumber.
She held the lamp and a bunch of keysIn her hands so pale and sickly;She open’d the presses against the walls,And the chests strew’d around her thickly.
There lie the imperial insignia all,There lies the bull all-golden,The sceptre, the regal apple, the crown,And more of such fancies olden.
There lie the ancient imperial robes,The purple frippery faded,The German kingdom’s wardrobe in fact,Now rusted and rot-pervaded.
The Housekeeper mournfully shakes her headAt the sight, then with deep displeasureShe suddenly cries at the top of her voice:“The whole of them stink beyond measure!
“The whole of them stink with mice’s dung“And rotten and mouldy’s the ermine;“And all the gaudy trumpery work“Is swarming with noxious vermin.
“In truth, on this splendid ermine dress,“Once used at the coronation,“The cats of the Senate-house district are wont“To lie, as their lying-in station.
“’Tis useless to clean them; I pity the fate“Of the Emperor next elected;“By the fleas in his coronation robe“His health will be surely affected.
“And know ye, that all the people must scratch,“Whenever the Emperor itches—“O Germans, I dread the princely fleas“Who swallow up much of your riches.
“Yet what is the use of monarch and fleas?“For rusty are now and all rotten“The olden costumes—By modern days“Are the ancient dresses forgotten.
“The German poet at Kyffhauser said“To Barbarossa quite truly:“‘I find that we want no Emperor now,“When I weigh the matter duly.’
“But if, spite of all, ye an empire must have,“With an Emperor reigning o’er ye,“My worthy Germans, don’t suffer yourselves“To be snared by genius or glory.
“Choose one of the people your monarch to be,“All sons of the nobles reject ye;“Select not the lion, select not the fox,“The dullest of sheep elect ye.
“Elect as your Monarch Colonia’s son,“The crown to dull Kobes awarding;“The genius of Dulness well-nigh is he,“His people he’ll ne’er be defrauding.
“A log is ever the best of kings,“As Esop has shown in the fable;“He cannot devour us poor frogs up,“As the stork with his long bill is able.
“Be sure that Kobes no tyrant will be,“No Holofernes or Nero;“He boasts no terrible antique heart,“A soft modern heart has our hero.
“Though vulgar pride might scorn such a heart“Yet in the arms of the helot“Of work the unfortunate threw himself,“Becoming a regular zealot.
“The men of the journeymen’sBurschenschaft“As president Kobes elected;“He shared with them their last piece of bread,“They held him vastly respected.
“They boasted that he in all his life“Had never been at college,“And out of his head composed his books“By the light of intuitive knowledge.
“Yes, his consummate ignorance“Was the fruit of his own endeavour;“With foreign wisdom and training he“Had injured his intellect never.
“From abstract philosophy’s influence he“Kept likewise his thoughts and his spirit“Entirely free.—Himself he remain’d!“Yes, Kobes has really his merit!
“The tear of the usual stereotype form“In his beautiful eye is gleaming,“And from his lips incessantly“The grossest stupidity’s streaming.
“He prates and he grins, and he grins and prates,“His words with long ears are provided;“A pregnant woman who heard him speak“Gave birth to a donkey decided.
“With scribbling books and knitting he’s wont“His idle hours to flavour;“The stockings that he with his own hands knit“Have met with particular favour.
“To devote himself wholly to knitting he’s begg’d“By Apollo and all the Muses;“They’re frighten’d whenever they see that his hand“A goose-quill laboriously uses.
“His knitting recals the olden time“Of the Funken,[91]—who all stood knitting“While mounting guard,—these men of Cologne“No means of amusement omitting.
“If Kobes is Emp’ror, he’ll surely recal“To life these Funken deserving;“The valiant band will surround his throne,“As the guard imperial serving.
“He well might be glad to go at their head,“And march over France’s borders,“And Alsace, Lorraine, and Burgundy fair“Bring under Germany’s orders.
“Yet be not afraid, at home he’ll remain,“Intent on a scheme long suspended,“A lofty idea, the completion, in fact,“Of Cologne Cathedral so splendid.
“But when the Cathedral’s quite complete,“Then Kobes will get in a passion,“And sword in hand, will bring the French“To account in a regular fashion.
“He’ll take Alsace and Lorraine away“(By France from the empire estreated);“To Burgundy, too, he’ll triumphantly go,“When once the Cathedral’s completed.
“Ye Germans, pray lose not your senses quite,“If an Emperor’s needed, I’ll name him;“The Carnival King of Cologne let it be,“As Kobes the First now proclaim him!
“The fools of the Carnival rout at Cologne,“With caps and bells ringing and mocking,“Shall be his ministers of state,“His scutcheon a knitted stocking.
“Let Drickes be Chancellor, calling himself“Count Drickes of Drickeshausen,“And Marizebill the Mistress of State,“With the Emperor fondly carousing.[92]
“Within his good sacred town of Cologne“Will be Kobes’s habitation;“And when the Cologners hear the glad news,“They’ll have an illumination.
“The bells, the iron dogs of the air,“Into joyous barks will be breaking,“And the three holy kings from the land of the East“In their chapel will soon be awaking.
“They’ll step outside with their clattering bones,“All dancing with rapture and springing;“I hear them the Hallelujah’s strains“And Kyrie Eleison singing.”—
Thus spoke the dread white nightly ghostWith loud uproarious laughter;Through all the resounding halls of the placeThe echo rang wildly long after.
Graves they say are warm’d by glory;Foolish words and empty story!Better far the warmth we proveFrom a cow-girl deep in love,With her arms around us flung,Reeking with the smell of dung.And that warmth is better tooThat man’s entrails pierces throughWhen he drinks hot punch and wine,Or his fill of grog divine,In the vilest, meanest den’Mongst the thieves and scum of men,Who escape the gallows daily,But who breathe and live all-gaily,With as enviable fateAs e’en Thetis’ son so great.—Rightly did Pelides say:Living in the meanest wayIn the upper world’s worth more,Than beside the Stygian shoreKing of shades to be; a heroSuch as Homer sang is zero.
Graves they say are warm’d by glory;Foolish words and empty story!Better far the warmth we proveFrom a cow-girl deep in love,With her arms around us flung,Reeking with the smell of dung.And that warmth is better tooThat man’s entrails pierces throughWhen he drinks hot punch and wine,Or his fill of grog divine,In the vilest, meanest den’Mongst the thieves and scum of men,Who escape the gallows daily,But who breathe and live all-gaily,With as enviable fateAs e’en Thetis’ son so great.—Rightly did Pelides say:Living in the meanest wayIn the upper world’s worth more,Than beside the Stygian shoreKing of shades to be; a heroSuch as Homer sang is zero.
Graves they say are warm’d by glory;Foolish words and empty story!Better far the warmth we proveFrom a cow-girl deep in love,With her arms around us flung,Reeking with the smell of dung.And that warmth is better tooThat man’s entrails pierces throughWhen he drinks hot punch and wine,Or his fill of grog divine,In the vilest, meanest den’Mongst the thieves and scum of men,Who escape the gallows daily,But who breathe and live all-gaily,With as enviable fateAs e’en Thetis’ son so great.—Rightly did Pelides say:Living in the meanest wayIn the upper world’s worth more,Than beside the Stygian shoreKing of shades to be; a heroSuch as Homer sang is zero.