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Charles Godfrey Leland.

The Breitmann Ballads online

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Oonendless wisdom ish but dis:
To go it vhile you're yung!
Und Age vas nefer coom to him,
To him Spring plooms afresh,
Who finds a livin' spirit in
Der Teufel und der Flesh.


BREITMANN IN LA SORBONNE.

DER Breitmann sits in la Sorbonne,
A note-pook in his hand,
'Tvas dere he vent to lectures,
Und in oldt Louis le Grand.
Id's more ash two und dwendy years
Since here I used mein pen;
Oh, where ish all de characders,
Dat I hafe known since denn?

Der cratest boet efer vas,
Der pest I efer known,
Vent lecdures here, too, shoost like me,
Le Sieur Françoys Villon.
He raise de teufel all arount,
He hear de Sorbonne chime;
Crate shpirid ender in mein heart,
Und mofe mein soul to rhyme.


BALADE.

Dictes moy - in what shpirit land
Ish Clara Lafontaine?
Or Pomaré, or La Frisette,
Who blazed on soosh a train?
Shveet Echo flings de quesdion pack,
O'er lake or shdreamlet lone;
All eartly peauty fades afay,
Vhere ish dem lofed ones gone?

Oh, vhere ish Lola Montez now,
So loved in efery land?
How oft I shmoked dose cigarettes
She rollt mit vairy hand!
Dat mighdy soul, dat shplendit brick,
A saint's pecome to be,
For mit soosh saints der Breitmann make
His Hagiologie.

Und vhere ish La Pochardinette?
Ish she too mit de dead?
She loafed de Latin Quarter mit
A hat und fedder on her het.
Lebe wohl petite Pochardinette!
Qui ne safait refuser,
Ni la ponche à la bleine ferre,
Ni sa pouche à un paiser.

O Prince! dese quesdions all are nix,
I sit here all alone,
Mit von refrain to end de shdrain,
Vhere ish mein lofed vons gone?
Vhen Marcovitch has cut und run,
Und Schneider's off de ving,
Some cray old reprobate like me
Vill of dese lofed vons sing.


BREITMANN IN FORTY-EIGHT.

DERE woned once a studente,
All in der Stadt Paris,[56]
Whom jeder der ihn kennte,
Der rowdy Breitmann hiess.
He roosted in de rue La Harpe,
Im Luxembourg Hotel,
'Twas shoost in anno '48,
Dat all dese dings pefel.

Boot he who vouldt go hoontin now
To find dat rue La Harpe,
Moost hafe oongommon shpecdagles,
Und look darnation sharp.
For der Kaisar und his Hausmann
Mit hauses made so vree,
Dere roon shoost now a Bouleverse
Vhere dis shdreet used to pe.

In dis Hotel de Luxembourg,
A vild oldt shdory say,
A shtudent vonce pring home a dame,
Und on de nexter day,
He pooled a ribbon from her neck-
Off fell de lady's het;
She'd trafelled from de guillotine,
Und valked de city - deadt.

Boot Breitmann nefer cared himself
If dis vas falsch or drue,
I kess he hat mit lifin gals
Pout quite enough to do.
Und Februar vas gomin,
Ganz revolutionnaire,
Und vhere der Teufel had vork on hand,
Der Hans vas alvays dere.

Und darker grew de beople's brows,
No Banquet could dey raise,
So dey shtood und shvore at gorners,
Or dey singed de Marseillaise.
Und here und dere a crashin sound
Like forcin shutters ran,
Und boorstin gun-schmidts' vindows in
Hard vorked der Breitemann.

He helped to howl Les Girondins,
To cheer de beople's hearts;
He maket dem bild parricades
Mit garriages und garts.
Vhen a bretty maiden sendinel
Vonce ask de countersign,
He gafe das kind a rousin giss,
Gott hute dir und dein!

Und wilder vent de pattle,
France spread her oriflamme,
Und deeper roared de sturm bell,
De bell of Notre Dame;
Und he who nefer heard it,
O'er shots und cries of fear,
Loud booming like a dragon's roar,
Has someding yet to hear.

Und in de Fauborg Sainte Antoine
Dere comed a fusillade,
Und dyin groans und fallin dead
Vere roundt dat parricade,
But der song of Revolution
From a tousand voices round,
Made a fearful opera gorus
To de deat' gries on de ground.

Und all around dose parricades
Dey raise der teufel dere;
Somedimes dey vork mit pig-axes,
Und somedimes mit gewehr.
Dey maket prifate houses
Gife all deir arms afay,
Und denn oopon de panels
Dey writet Armes données.

Und ve saw mid roarin vollies,
Shtreaked like banded settin suns,
Two regiments coome ofer,
Und telifer oop deir guns.
Hei! - how de deers vere roonin:
Hei! - how dey gryed hurrahs!
For dey saw de vight vas ofer,
Und dey know dey gained deir cause.

Dus spoke deir hearts outboorstin,
In battle by de blade,
From sun to sun mit roarin gun
Und donnerin parricade.
In vain pefore de depudies
De princes tremblin stood,
Vot comes in France too late a day
Cooms shoost in dime for blood.

Vhen de Tuileries vas daken,
Amid de scotterin shot,
Und vlyin stones, und howlin,
Und curses vild und hot,
'Tvas dere Hans clobbed his musket,
Und dere de man vas first
To roosh into de palace,
Ven de toors vere in-geburst.

Some vellers burn de guart-haus,
Some trink des Königs wein;
Some fill deir hats mit rasbry sham,
Und prandy beeches fein.
Hans Breitmann in de gitchen
Vas shdare like avery ding,
To see vot lots of victual-de-dees
Id dakes to feed a king.

Und oder volk, like plackguarts,
Vent dook de goaches out;
Und burnin dem, dey rolled dem
Afay mit yell und shout.
Der Breitmann in der barlor,
Help writen rapidly,
La liberté pour la Pologne!
Likevise - pour l'Italie!

Den in der Tuileries courtyard
Ten tousand volk come on;
Dey vas gissin und hurrahin
For to dink der king vas gone.
Some vas hollerin und tantzin
Round de blazin oldt caboose;
Vhen Fräntschmen kits a goin,
Den dey lets der teufel loose.

Boot von veller set me laughin,
Who roosh madly roun de field;
He hat rop de Cluny Museum,
Und gestohlen speer und schild.
Mit a sblendit royal charger,
Vitch he hat somevhere found,
Like a trunken Don Quixote,
He vent tearin oop und round.

Doun vent de line of Bourbons,
Doun vent de vork of years,
Ash de pillars of deir temple
Ge-crashed like splintered speers;
Und o'er dem rosed a phantom,
Wild, beautiful, und weak,
Vhile millions gry arount her-
Vive! vive la Republique;

Tree days mid shdiflin powder shmoke,
Tree days mid cheers und groans,
Ve fought to guard de parricades,
Or pile dem oop mit shtones.
De hand vitch held de bistol denn,
Or made de crowbar bite,
Das war de same Hans Breitmann's hand
Vitch now dese verses write.


BREITMANN IN BELGIUM.

- - -

"Vlaenderen, dag en nacht
Denk ik aen u.
Waer ik ook ben en vaer,
Gy zyt my altyd naer.
Vlaenderen, dag en nacht
Denk ik aen u.

Overal vrolykheid,
Overal lust.
Maegden van fier gelaet,
Knapen zoo vroom en draet.
Overal vrolykheid,
Overal lust."
- Hoffmann von Fallersleben.


SPA.

VHEN sommer drees shake fort deir leafs,
Ash maids shake out deir locks,
Und singen mit de rifulets,
Vitch ripplen round de rocks,
Und beople swarm land-outwards,
Und cities weary men,
Hans Breitmann rode de Belgier mark
For Spa in Les Ardennes.

Und vhen he came to Spadenland,
He found it fein und fair,
For dey pour him out de péké schnapps,
Dazu elixer rare;
Und mit a soldier's inshdink
To find a shanse to shoot,
Mitout delay he fire afay
Right in de Grande Redoute.[57]

De virst shot dat der Breitmann fired
He pring de peaches down,
For he hit de double zéro mit
A gold Napoleon.
Und ash he raked de shiners in,
He hummed a liddle doon:
"I kess I tont try dat again,"
Said he, dis afdernoon.

Boot vhen he coom to rouge et noir,
A tear fell tripplin denn,
Id look so moosh like goot old dimes,
To come dose games again.
Yet vhen he lossed a hundred francs,
He sadly toorned afay,
"I'd rader keep de tiger here,
Dan vight him, any day."

Und shtanding py de daple,
He saw a French lorette
Vat porrowed shpecie all around,
Und lossed at efery bet.
"Id's all de same mit dis or dat,
Or any kind of sin,
De lorette or de rolette - bot'
Will make de money shpin."

He trinket of Le Pouhon well,
Und from La Sauveniére;
He tried it ad de Barisart,
Und auch de Géronstére.
"Dey say dat Troot' lie in a well,
So trink from all we can,
Und here we'll prove dat Troot is Health,"
Dat's so, sayd Breitemann.

So long in ruined Franchimont
He sat on hollowed ground,
Und dinked of Wilhelm de la Marck,
Who'd raked dat coontry round.
"Mein Gott! how id vas mofe mine heart
To read in hishdory,
Und find de scattered shinin lights
Of vellers shoost like me!

"Dis nople boar-pig of Ardennes,
Dis shtately Wallowin lord,
Vas make him vamous py de pen,
Und glorious py de swordt.
Und showed his hero-scholarship,
Vhen he wrote to de pishop, 'Satis,
Brulabo monasterium
Vestrum, si non payatis.'

"Dey say dat in de keller here
Dere lifes a coblin briest,
Dereto a teufelsjägersmann
Vot guard a specie chest.
O if I vonce could find de vay,
Und spot dat box of checks,
I voonder shoost how long 'twould pe
Pefore I'd twis deir necks."

Und in de Walk of Meyerbeer,
Vhere plashin brooklets ring,
He see vhere in de water wild
De wood-birds flip deir wing.
"Ash de prooklet's lost in de rifer,
Und de rifer's lost in de sea,
Mine soul kits lost on water 'plain,'"
Says Breitemann, says he.

Und ash he walked de Meyerbeer
He marcked, peside de way,
A rock shoost like a wild boar's head,
Vraie tête du sanglier.
Der Breitmann heafe a shiant sigh,
Und say mit 'motion grand:
Von crate idée ish über all
In dis der Schweinpig's land.

He drafel troo de Val d'Ambléve,
He lounge de schweet Sept Heures,
He shdare indo de window-shops,
Und see de painted ware.[58]
He looket at de fans und dings,
Denn said, "To tell de trut',
Dere's painted vares more dear ash dis
Oop shdairs in La Redoute."

Und sittin in de Champignon,
Vitch rose 'neat Lofe's schweet hand,
He read in books of Marmontel,
Of Jeannette et Lubin.
Id's nice to see Simplicitas
Rococoed oop mit vlowers,
Und dink soosh virtue shdill may life
In dis base vorldt of ours.

'Tvas here, oopon de Spadoumont
Deir gottashe used to set;
'Tvas here they keeped von simple cow
Likevise an lettuce-bett.
Berhaps I hafe crown vorldly since,
Yet shdill may druly say,
Dat in mine poyhood's tays I vas
Apout so good ash dey.

But he vot vant to see dis land,
Und has nod time for all:
Eash woodland nook und shady brook;
On Herr Marcette shouldt call.
For he has baintet all to live
Vhen de drees demselfs are gone;
Und shoost so goot as artist, auch,
Ish he bon compagnon.

Farevell, schveet Spa - dou home of vlowers,
Of ruin and of rock,
Vhere vild pirds sing und de band ish blay
Eash day at sefen o'clock.
If all de shbrees dat Spa has seen
Vere melted into von,
De soul vouldt reach Nirwana - lost
In transcendental fun.


OSTENDE.

"Hupsa! jonker Jan,
Die wel ruiter worden kan."

BOON tidings to der Breitmann came
Ash he at table end,
Dere's right goot fisch at Blankenberghe,
Und oysters in Ostend.
Denn to Ostland ve will reiten gaen,
To Ostland o'er de sand,
Dou und I mit pridle drawn
For dere ish de oyster land.

Und vhen dey shtood bei Ostersee,
Vhere de waters roar like sin,
Dere coom five hundert fischer volk
To dake der Breitmann in.
"Gotts doonder! Should ve doomple down
Amoong de waters plue,
I kess you'd vant more help from me
Dan I should vant from you!

"If you hat peen vhere I hafe peen
Und see vot I hafe see,
Vhere de surf rise oop nine tausend feet,
In de land of Nieuw Jarsie
Und schwimmed dat surf ash I hafe schwimmed,
Peside de Jersey stran'"-
From dat day fort' de Ostland men
Shdeered glear of der Breitemann.

Boot von ding set him schvearin so,
I dinked he'd nefer cease,
De Ostend oysters kostet more
In Ostend als Paris.
Hans asked an anciendt fisherman,
To 'splain dis if he may,
Und says he, "Mijn Heer - dey're beter hier
Als ein hundert leagues afay.

"Und as de oysters beter hier
Of course dey kostet more"-
Der Breitmann dook his bilcrim shdaff,
Und toorned him to de toor.
Says Hans, "De Vlaemsche fischermen
Can sheat de vorldt I pet
Dey sheaten von anoder too,
All's fisch to a Dutchman's net.

"Der king peginned a palace hier,
De palace hat to shtop,
He foundt de beoples sheaten so
He gife de bildin oop.
Aldough das Leben hier ish goot,
Ad least Ostend-sibly"-
So shpoke der Breitemann und cut
Dat city py de sea.


GENT.

"Wie kennt die stad waer alles nog
Van Vlaenderens grootheid spreekt?
Waer ontrouw, valschheid en bedrog
Van schæmte nog verbleekt?"
- Ledeganck.

If I hat gold, as I hafe time,
I tells you how 'tvere shpent,
On efery year I'd shtay a week
In Vlanderen's hoofstad, Gent.
For, oh! de sveet wild veelins,
In dat stad do mofe me so,
Vhen I'd dink of all de clorious men
Vot life dere long aco.

If efer man hat manly heart,
He'd veel dat heart to beat,
Vhen mit de oldten dime of Ghent
He valks troo efery shdreet.
Und ach! de volk are yet so goot,
It gave me soosh a pliss,
Vhen I hear a bier-hous spielman sing
A melodie like dis:-

"Het was op eenen Monday,
All on a Monday free,
Dat mijnheere Jacob Van Artevelde
Unto his men said he:
He seide - 'Mijn lief gesellen,
Ve all moost ride out land,
And trive our way to Bruges town
Or Brussel in Braband.'

"Und as he oonto Brussel cam,
De meisjes sprong from bed,
Und found Mynheere Van Artevelde
Mit a cross-bolt troo his head."
Und shoost pecause dis bier-hous song
Recht troo my heartsen vent,
I feel dat I could life und die
All in de down of Gent.


BREITMANN IN HOLLAND.

- - -

'S GRAVENHAGE - THE HAGUE.

IN dis boem, mein freund der Herr Breitmann hafe his fiews on art
pefore-geset mit a deepness und shorthood vich is bropably
oonliked
in Aesthetik. Ve hafe here, within de circumcomprehensifeness of
dirty-two lines, a théorie vitch - shortsomely exbressed -
sends to
der teufel efery dings ash vas efer gescribed pefore on kunst or
art, und maket efery podies from Baumgartner doun to Fischer und
Taine, look shoost like puddin-headet old gasbalgs. Boot to de
boem. For de informadion of dem ash ish not gestudied art, I
vould
shtate dat Adriaan Brauwer (who ish as regards an unvollkomene
technik de first of all Holland malers), vas nefer paint nodings
boot droonken plackguards und liederlich dings, und Van Ostade
und
Jan Steen vas in most deir bilds a goot deal like him.
- FRITZ SCHWACKENHAMMER.

Hans reitet troo de Nederland,
From Rotterdam below,
To Gravenhaag und Leyden
Und Haarlem - all a row;
He shtoodit in de galleries
A tausend works of art;
Boot ach - der Adriaan Brauwer,
Vent most teepest to his heart.

Und dus exglaim der Breitmann
In woonder-solemn shdrain,
"De cratest men vere Brauwer,
Van Ostadé, und Jan Steen.
Der Raffael vas vel enof;
Dat ish in his shmall vay;
Boot - Gott im Himmel! - vot vas he
Coompared mit soosh as dey?

"Shoost see dat vight of troonken boors-
Von tears de oder's goat:
Vhile de oder mit a pointet knife
Ish goin for his troat.
Und a mädchen mit a tree-leg shtuhl
Ish clip him on de het,
In dese higher human passion valks,
Der Raffael's coldt und deadt.

"De more ve digs into de eart'-
Or less ve seeks a star,-
De nearer ve to Natur coom,
More panthéistich far;
To him who reads dis myst'ry right,
Mit insbiration gifen,
Der Raffael's rollen in de dirt,
Vhile Brauwer soars to Heafen.


LEYDEN.

TIS shveet to valk in Holland towns
Apout de twilicht tide,
Vhen all ish shdill on proad canals,
Safe vhere a poat may clide.
Shdrange light on darkenin vater falls,
In long soft lines afar,
Der abenddroth on dunkelheit,
Vitch shows - or hides - a star.

De pridges risen all aroundt
So quaindly, left und right,
Pedween each pridge und shattow, lies,
A lemon of yellow light,
Und das volk a-goin ober,
So darklin onwarts pass,
Dey look like Chinese shattows - shown
Apofe a lookin-glass.

All shdiller grows, und shdiller,
Sogar die efenin preeze,
Ish only heardt far ober het
In dese long lines of drees;
A real oldt Holland feelin
Cooms gadderin ober all,
You'd nefer dink a sturm hat peen
Oopon dis Grand Canawl.

De nople houses! - how dey'd mofe
An old New Yorker's heart,
Time vas - twix dese und dose at home
You couldn't tell 'em part,
Mit crate brass knockers on de toors,
Und parlors town so low
You see de crates a glowin prite
O'er carbets ash you go.

Dere's comfort-full of avery dings,
You veel it ash you look,
You knows de volks ish opulend,
Und keep a bully cook;
Und oopon de high camine,
Or here und dere on shelf,
Dere's Japanesisch dings in rows,
Pe mingled oop mit delf.

Dere's noding in dis Holland life,
Vitch seems of present day,
De fery shildren in de shdreeds
Look quaintlich as dey blay;
De liddle rosy housemaids,
In bicdures vell I know,
De dames und heers hafe all an air
Of sixdy years ago.

They may dalk of anciendt hishdory
Und for romantisch seek,
De ding dat mofes most teeply ish
Old-vashioned - not antique.
O if you live in Leyden town
You'll meet, if troot' pe told,
De forms of all de freunds who tied
Vhen du werst six years old.


SCHEVENINGEN,
OR DE MAIDEN'S COORSE.

Oldt Flämisch.

HET vas Mijn Heer van Torenborg,
Ride oud oopon de sand,
Und vait to hear a paardeken;
Coom tromplin from de land.
He vaited vhen de boeren volk
Vent oud oopon de plain,
He vaited dill de veary crows
Flew nestwarts home acain.

He vaited ash de wild fox vaits
In long-some hoonger noth,
He vaited dill de flitterin bats
Vere plack on Abendroth.
Id's woe to watch for taily bread
Or bide forgotten call,
Boot oh, to vait for heartsen lofe
Ish veariest of dem all.

"O dat ish not mine laity's prooch
Shoost now so star-like shined,
O dat ish not mine laity's haar
Soft floatin on de wind.
Her goot crayhound mit soosh a step
Vas nefer vont to go,
Und dat is niet her paardeken
Whose shtep so vell I know.

"Dat light ish speer light from a lanz
Vitch'll part mine pody und soul,
De floatin haar is a pennon gay
Or wafin banderol.
De crayhound ish a ploot-hound wild
Vitch long has dracked me here,
Und het paardeken ish a var-horse
Vot has hoonted me like deer."

Well shpoke Mijn Heer van Torenborg
All drue vas afery wordt,
For dey bored him troo mit lanzen,
Und dey hewed him mit de swordt.
Dey killt him armloss, harmlos;
De plooty reiver band;
Und puried him so careloosly
Dat his vace shtick out de sand.

Boot e'er night's plack hat toorned to red
Or e'er de stars vere gone,
Dere came de shtep of a paardeken
Soft tromplin, tromplin on.
A laity fair climped off on him
Und trip mit dainty toes:-
Boot oh, mijn Gott! - how she vas shkreem
Ven she trot on her drue lofe's nose!

"Oh vot ish dis I trots opon?
Id's shape fool well I know,
Dere nefer yet vas flower like dis,
Dat in de garten crow.
Dere nefer yet vas fruit like dis
Ash ripen on a dree;
Het is Mijn Heer van Torenborg
Dat kan ik blainly see.

"Dat heerlijk nose, van Torenborg,
Ish known of anciend dime,
'Tis writ in olten chronikel
Und sung in minsdrel rhyme.
Und dis, de noblest of de race
Since hishdory pegans,
Ish shtickin here - shdraighdt out de dirt,
Shoost like some boer manns.

"Oh cuss de man dat mordered him!
Ach, cuss him oop and down,
Ja - cuss him troo de forest roads,
Und tamn him in de toun!
Und burn his vater und moder,
Vhere'er deir vootshteps vall,
Mit his schwesters und his broders,
De teufel rake dem all!

"May afery cuss dat e'er vas cusst,
Since cussin foorst pegan;
Pe hoorled in von drementous cuss,
Acainsdt dat nasdy man!
From de foorst crate cuss on Adam,
To de smalles' of de crop"-
Here de tead man gafe a shifer,
Und gry oud - "For Gott's sake - shdop!

"Dere's a cerdain lot of shwearin,
Vitch anger alvays crafes;
Boot spite like dat's enof to pring
De tead men from deir craves.
I can't lie here no longer,
Und hear soosh pizen pain;
Und since you've shtirred me out, I kess
I'll coom to life acain."

Mit von drementous shkreem of pliss,
His drue lofe shtood de shock,
Den catcht him wildly py de nose,
"Ach Torenborg - lev'st du nock!
Ach ja - du aint'st nod tead yet!
Dere's life shdill lef' pehind,
Gott pless de dat lef' dy nose,
Shdill wafin in de wind."

Mit hands all ofer diamonds,
She loosed de sand apout,
Mit an oyster-shell so wildly
She digged her lofer out.
"Und now dou'rt in free air, lofe!
Who warst shoost now in sand!
Dere vasn't ish a nicer man,
In all de Nederland!

Vhere vas dit liedeken written,
Vhere vas dit liedeken sing,
Dat had gedone Hans Breitmann,
In de town of Schevening!
'Tvas written ober Rheinwein,
'Tvas written ober bier-
Und wer das lied gesungen hat,
Gott geb ihm ein glucklich's jahr.[59]


AMSTERDAM.

TO Amsterd-m came Breitmann
All in de Kermes tide;
Yonge Maegden allegader
Filled de straat on afery side.
De meisjes in de straaten
Vere tantzin alle nacht long;
Dere vas kissen, dere vas trinken,
Mit a roar of Holland song.

Who went into de straaten
Ven de sonn had gone his day,
De Dootch gals quickly grapped him
Und tantzed him wild avay.
Dere was der Prinz von Capua,
Who fell among dese wags;
Dey tantzed him off in a carmagnole,
Und sent him home in rags.

Und den at afery gorner,
So peaudifool to see,
De volk vas bilin dough-nuts,
Or else vas fryin tea.
Und Kermes cakes mit boetry,
Vitch land-volk dinks a dreat,
Mit all of Barnum's blayed out shows
In dents along de shdreet.

Id pring de tears to Breitmann's eyes,
To find in many a shtand
Vot oft he'd baid a quarder for
To see in a distand land.
De Aztec dwins und de Siamese
(Dough soom vere a wachsen sham);
Mit de Beardet Frau und de Bear Woman-
All here in Amsterdam

De fashion here in Nederland
Ish not vot you'd soopose,
Mit oos, men bays de vomens,
Boot de Dootch gals hires deir beaux!
Dey hire dem for de season,
Und because moosh rain ish fell,
Dey alvays bays a higher brice,
For a man mit an umberell.

Und dere vas Nord Hollander maids,
So woonderfool to see,
Mit caps of gold und goldne pins,
Und quaint orféverie.
Likewise de Zeeland Boersmen,
Mit silber bootons gay;
Und silber belts, und silber knives,
Mijn Gott! - how sdrange vere dey!

But dough de men wore silber gear,
Und de vrouws in gold were tall,
De gals vere gabblin all de dimes,
Und de men said noding at all.
"Dey say dat sbeech is silbern,
Boot silence golden pe,
Dat aint de vay dey vork id here,"
Said Breitemann, said he.

Goot Gott! how Breitmann vent it,
In moonlighdt or in rain;
Den vakened to Schied-m it,
Ven de mornin peamed again.
For to solfe von awfool broplem,
He vas efer shdill incline;
If - den wijn is beter als de min,[60]
Or - de min doet veel meer als de wijn.

Dwo weeks der Breitmann studiet,
Vile he vent it on de howl.
He shpree so moosh to find de troot,
Dat he lookt like a bi-led owl.
Den he say, "Ik wil honor Bacchus,
So long as ik leven shall;
Boot not so moosh vercieren
As to blace him ofer all.

De rose of lofe is lofely
In zomer ven it plow;
De bush shdill gifes a bromise,
In winter mid de shnow;
Ja, als de bloeme is geplukt,
En van den steel genomen,[61]
Ve know de peautiful vill life,
Till zomer is gekomen.

Boot oh dose vas arch-heafenly dimes,
Ven by mine lofe I sat;
Und see de maedchen pring de grapes,
Und crash dem in a vat.
Und ven her glances unto mine
In plessfool ropture toorn;
I dink dere ne'er vas no dwo crapes
Like dem plue eyes of hern.

Wat is soeter als de trinken,[62]


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Online LibraryCharles Godfrey LelandThe Breitmann Ballads → online text (page 8 of 13)