English

(Alt Deutsch.)

HE shtood peside de Kloster-place,
Oopon de Rheinisch shore,
Und dere he saw a lofely face,
He'd seen in treams pefore.

" Feinslieb, und will'st dou go mit me?
Feinsllieb, make no delay;
For rocks ish shdeep und vales ish teep,
Und dings ish in de way. "

" Und oh! how can I go mit dir,
Or flyen out of land?
Der bischof holts me py de law,

Am Rhein! Acain am Rheine!
In boat oopon der Rhein!
De castle-bergs soft goldnen
Im Abendsonnenschein,
Mit lots of Rudesheimer,
Und saitenklang und sang,
Und laties singin lieder,
Ash ve go sailin 'long.

Und von fair Englisch dame
Vas dere, so wunderscheen;
Vene'er der Breitmann saw her,
Id made his heartsen pain.
Oh, dose long-tailed veilchen Augen,
Vitch voke soosh hopes und fears,
Deir shape vas nod like almonds,
Boot more like fallin tears.

Und shpecdagles were o'er dem,

How wunderschon das Vaterland
In audumn-life abbears;
Vot rainpows gild ids vallies crand,
Ven seen troo vallin tears.
Und VON I'll creet mit sang und klang,
Und drown in goldnen wein;
Old Deutschland's cot her sohn again:
Hans Breitmann's on der Rhein.

Und doughts ish schwell dat mighdy heart,
Too awfool for make known;
Ven dey shunt him from de railroat car
Und tropped him in Cologne.
De holy towers of de dome
Cleam, twilicht-veiled, afar;
Und like some lonely bilgrim's pipe,

This cloak that on Sequanian looms was born,
A gift right welcome on a winter's morn,
I send you now; in Sparta it is famed,
Though it be rough, and endromis is named.
Whether well-oiled you wrestle in the lists,
Or punch the light-stuffed ball with eager fists,

Or in the dust the flying bladder chase,
Or seek to conquer Athas in the race,
'Twill serve to keep the cold from heated limbs
And save you from the rainstorm's sudden whims.
Your Tyrian muslins are but shelter vain;
Clad in this gift you'll laugh at wind and rain.

" WHERE 's number ONE," you say, " if this book's TWO?"
My first is shy, so what am I to do?
But if in this the First you'd rather see,
Take one away, and then it ONE will be.

I CAN pardon your habit of spending the night
O'er the wine-cup; for Cato in that did delight.
And though with your verses the Muses you sully,
I praise them; for here you take pattern by Tully,
When you vomit, you do as Mark Antony did;
And your greed by Apicius' shadow is hid.
But when you indulge in your beastliest tricks,
To find you a model I'm quite in a fix.

You pretend for your kisses the girls are athirst,
With your cheeks, like a diver's, just ready to burst.

You have robbed the young gallant of nostrils and ears,
And his face now of both is bereft.
But your vengeance remains incomplete it appears;
He has still got another part left.

Though in a gorgeous litter you may ride,
It seems a pauper's bier when you're inside.

While Fannius the foeman fled,
He madly pierced his side,
And, lest he should be stricken dead,
By his own hand he died.