Whither Now?

Whither now? My foot is foolish,
And to Germany would go;
But my reason sees the folly,
Shakes her head, and murmurs, " No.

" Though the war indeed is over,
Martial law, alas! is not,
And they tell me you have written
Stuff for which you might be shot. "

'Tis a fact, and most unpleasant
Would the shooting process be:
There is nothing of the hero
Or his pathos about me.

I would gladly go to England,
If the smoke were not so thick,
And if even to smell the English
Did not always make me sick.

I have more than once been tempted
By America's renown,
Where, in Freedom's mighty stable,
Stalled alike is every clown;

But I fear a land where skittles
Can be played without a king,
Where the natives chew tobacco,
And spittoons are not the thing.

The delightful land of Russia
Might appeal to me, no doubt,
But in winter rather trying
I should find, I fear, the knout.

Then I sadly gaze above me,
Where the stars in thousands shine,
But, 'mid all the nodding thousands,
I can see no trace of mine.

Has it lost its way in heaven's
Golden labyrinth of light,
As, on earth, I too have wandered
In the tumult and the night?
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Author of original: 
Heinrich Heine
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