Chapter I: Front Matter (1)

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Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by Google Books

Transcriber's Note:

1. Page scan source:
http://books.google.com/books?id=T8EDAAAAQAAJ&dq

2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].

GAUDEAMUS

Humorous Poems

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF

JOSEPH VICTOR SCHEFFEL

AND OTHERS.

BY

CHARLES G. LELAND.

LONDON:
TRUeBNER & CO., 8 & 60, PATERNOSTER ROW.
1872.

[_All Rights reserved_.]

JOHN CHILDS AND SON, PRINTERS.

CONTENTS.

_Translator's Preface_

_Joseph Victor Scheffel. An Introductory Memoir_

_Granite_

_The Ichthyosaurus_

_The Tazzelworm_

_The Megatherium_

_The Basalt_

_The Boulder_

_The Comet_

_Guano Song_

_Asphaltum_

_The Pile Builder_

_Hesiod_

_Modern Greek_

_Translation_

_Pumpus of Perusia_

_The Teutoburger Battle_

_Old Assyrian--Jonah_

_By the Border_

_Hildebrand and Hadubrand_

_Song of the Travelling Students_

_The Cloister Cellar Master's Summer Morning Song_

_The Maulbronn Fugue_

_Der Enderle Von Ketsch_

_The Rodenstein Ballads_.
_The Three Villages_
_The Welcome_
_The Pawning_
_The Page_
_The Wild Army_
_Rodenstein and the Priest_
_Rodenstein_

_Heidelberg_.
_Number Eight_
_The Martin's Goose_
_The Last Trousers_
_The Last Postillion_
_Wine of Sixty-five_
_Perkeo_
_The Return Home_

_Miscellaneous_.
_Heinz Von Stein_
_The Holy Coat at Treves_
_Rambambo_
_Bibesco_
_The Jolly Brother_
_The Students Dress-coat_
_Ahasuerus_
_The Song of the Widow, Clara Bakethecakes_
_The Herring_
_From the German Gipsy_
_Brigand Song_
_Die Zwei Freunde_
_The Two Friends_
_To the Reader_

TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.

This volume contains the greater portion of the poems which constitute the Gaudeamus--'Let us be jolly'--of Joseph Victor Scheffel, who is at present the most popular poet in Germany. Without being presented as such, these ballads, though complete in themselves, form in their connection a droll history of the world and of humanity--advancing from the early outburst of Granite and Basalt, through the boulder of Gneiss to the Ichthyosaurus and Megatherium. Man then appears as a dweller in the pre-historic Swiss-Lacustrine-dwelling on poles, where he bitterly bewails the misfortune of being a pioneer of civilization, and as one born before the invention of modern comforts.

'In stocks I would gladly grow wealthy,
But exchange is not yet understood:
A good glass of beer would be healthy,
But never a drop has been brewed.'

The Early Ph[oe]nician is set forth in a droll song (originally published under the title of Jonah) which describes the disasters that befell a guest who could not pay his bill,--presented in arrow-head or cuneiform characters on six tiles. The old Etruscan era and that of the ancient German are also painted in a style which, could the truth be known, would probably be found as genially true to life as it is to the world-old, infinite spirit of Humour, which moved man in the same measure in ancient Egypt as in modern England. In these, as in his serious poems of a more ambitious nature, Joseph Victor Scheffel manifests a remarkable insight into the inner real life of the past. Like a geologist, or poet, he infers from trivial relics the probable feelings and habits of obscure beings or races, or at least imagines them, and assimilates them to modern usages with rare tact. These ballads have been printed, sung, and imitated in Germany of late years to a great extent. Scheffel has in fact founded a school of humorous poetry--that of the burlesque-scientific and historical--which, though by no means pretentious, has at least made the world laugh heartily. I sincerely trust that the following translations will induce the reader to become familiar with the original.

I have omitted a few poems from the Gaudeamus, as deficient in the peculiar spirit of _fun_ which characterises all that are here given; but should the public manifest its approbation of this work, they may be found in another edition. In their place I have given translations of a number of eccentric German-student songs of the new school, nearly all of which have found their way into the popular German song-books of late years.

CHARLES G. LELAND.

_London, October_, 1871.

JOSEPH VICTOR SCHEFFEL.

AN INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.

_Joseph Victor Scheffel_ was born in the year 1826, at Karlsruhe, in Baden, where his father, a veteran officer, had taken up his residence. He received his first instruction in the 'Lyceum' of his native place, a high school which enjoyed at the time a splendid reputation, and was considered the best in the Grand Duchy of Baden. Whatever may have been said against one or the other of the professors, the majority were remarkable men, knowing how to awaken the mental activity of their pupils. The social life of the 'Lyceists' was free from ordinary constraints; and the merry youths enjoyed many privileges, which at other places were strictly reserved for University students.

Nor did they lack any opportunities for intellectual improvement in the capital of Baden. The theatre was then excellent, and the 'Lyceists' visited it regularly. Eyen politics agitated the mind of this young generation. It must be remembered that thirty years ago Baden was the focus of political life, to which the eyes of every German patriot was directed; and although Mannheim was the seat of the agitation, the chamber united at Karlsruhe a number of men, whose names will ever be held in respect in Baden: Itzstein, Welcker, Bassermann, Hecker, Mathy, Soiron.

Joseph Victor passed with all the honours, and as one of the best pupils, all the classes of the Lyceum, and then devoted himself to the study of law at the University of Heidelberg. There he joined a so-called academical society of progress, without, however, taking part in the Baden revolution, which drove so many of his comrades into exile.

After having passed the Government examination we find our young poet as '_Rechtspractikant_' (practitioner of law) in the little town of Saeckingen. Well might the little provincial place appear dull to a student coming from the liveliest university of Germany. Still the splendid scenery of the environs of Saeckingen compensated for many shortcomings. With the numerous friends he won there, Scheffel made frequent excursions through the valleys which stretch in all directions from the Feldberg and the Rhine. He proved to be a bold and even reckless swimmer, passing many a time through the bridge of Saeckingen, saluting the bystanders as he accomplished this daring feat.

In the office of his court, located in an old convent of nuns, Scheffel found a number of old documents and MSS., and there his first poem was written, based on one of them: '_Der Trompeter von Saeckingen. Ein Sang vom Oberrhein_.'

The success of this first production was complete. It was published at the time when the 'incense perfume of the pious soul,' as Scheffel calls the poems of Oskar von Redwitz, had its firmest hold on the misguided taste of the public. In comparison with this sickly, effeminate poetry, the simple, natural, and yet intensely poetic production of Scheffel afforded something like the enjoyment of fresh mountain air after that of a hot-house. It is true, Scheffel was at first entirely ignored by the Berlin and Leipzig critics who assume to sit in judgment over modern German literature (he has, up to the present day, not even found a place in Brockhaus's _Conversations-Lexicon_), but the unsophisticated public recognized the kernel of pure poetry in Scheffel's unpretentious verses; and his 'Trompeter' is at present the most popular poem in Germany. Its story is told with extreme simplicity and humour, in blank trochees with interspersed rhymed poems; it leads us to the forest-town of Saeckingen during the second half of the 17th century, and into the neighbouring castle of a baron, whose only daughter is wooed and, at last, won by a young musician, a merry youth, who had been expelled from the University of Heidelberg on account of his noisy behaviour.

Nothing can be more humorous than the account of the ex-student's life at Heidelberg, of his duels and his libations beneath the big tun of the castle,

Bei dem Wunder unserer Tage,
Bei dem Kunstwerk deutschen Denkens,
Bei dem Heidelberger Fass,

or the historical episode of the foundation of Saeckingen by Saint Fridolin, an Irish apostle, sent by Chlodwig with the following message to convert the Allemannic Germans:

Hatt' sonst nicht die groesste Vorlieb
Fuer die Kutten, fuer die Heil'gen,
Aber seit mir die verfluchten
Scharfen Alemannenspiesse
Allzunah um's Ohr gepfiffen,
Seit der schweren Schlacht bei Zuelpich,
Bin ich and'rer Ansicht worden,
--Noth lehrt auch die Koenige beten.
Schutz drum geb' ich, wo ihr hinzieht.
Und empfehl' hauptsaechlich Euch am
Oberrhein die Alemannen.
Diese haben schwere Schaedel,
Diese sind noch trotz'ge Heiden,
Macht mir diese fromm und artig--

or the meditations of the cat of the castle, which, as silent witness of the caresses of the two lovers, thus broods over the enigma of the kiss:

Warum kuessen sich die Menschen?
S'ist nicht Hass, sie beissen sich nicht,
Hunger nicht, sie fressen sich nicht.
S'kann auch kein zweckloser blinder
Unverstand sein, denn sie sind sonst
Klug und selbstbewusst im Handeln;
Warum, also, frag' umsonst ich,
Warum kuessen sich die Menschen?
Warum meistens nur die Juengern?
Warum diese meist im Fruehling?
Ueber diese Punkte werd' ich
Morgen auf des Daches Giebel
Etwas naher meditiren.

In the delineations of the various characters of the 'Trompeter' Scheffel exhibits a gift of true poetical conception, a warmth of feeling, and a power of description, equalled by few of our modern poets; indeed, the characters rise before our mind with such truthfulness, as the idealized types of the people in that corner of Germany, that one might almost believe one had met all of them during one's wanderings in the Black Forest, whether it be Werner, the merry trumpeter, or the crusty old baron, or Anton, the respectable 'Hausknecht.'

Scheffel did not remain long in Saeckingen. He quitted the Government service, and, after passing some time in travels in South Germany, settled at Donaueschingen as Keeper of the Archives of Prince Fuerstenberg. This town is likewise exceedingly small, the environs are bare and not to be compared with the romantic scenery of the Upper Rhine; but at the court of the refined princes of Fuerstenberg there were at all times remarkable men, and the library afforded, in MSS. and documents, ample means for the study of Old German history, language, and literature.

To this study Scheffel now devoted himself, and, in combining his qualities as a poet with that of an historian, created his famous novel Ekkehard. Based chiefly on the Chronicles of the Monastery of St. Gallen, it gives us a faithful picture of the social life in South Western Germany--the most ancient seat and nucleus of German civilization during the tenth century,--in retaining and reproducing all the naivete, freshness, and simple-minded views which are the charms of these celebrated chronicles, whilst the poet's figures are marked with that distinct individuality which raises the dry chronicle to a skilful and poetical tale of human passions and conflicts. Ekkehard may be compared with the best of Sir Walter Scott's novels. Another fruit of Scheffel's researches in mediaeval literature is his charming little volume '_Frau Aventiure_,' and likewise, although published much later, '_Juniperus_,' the history of a German Crusader, and his most recent work, '_Die Bergpsalmen_.' Both these latter works (the last one is written in verse) exhibit the same merits as Ekkehard, but they are laid out on a smaller scale, and are of a more fragmentary character. '_Frau Aventiure_' is a collection of songs, partly jocose, partly inspired by the most tender feelings, in the spirit of the poems of the Minnesinger and wandering scholars of the Middle Ages, and is based on a subtle knowledge of mediaeval culture and poetry.

But to his second residence in Heidelberg we must trace the origin of his most popular work, the collection of songs known under the title of 'Gaudeamus.' A small circle of friends, who met every Wednesday evening at a supper in the Hollaender Hof, near the bridge (and amongst whose most conspicuous members were the celebrated historian Ludwig Haeusser, and the venerable pastor of Ziegelhausen, Fr. Schmezer), kindled those sparks of unequalled humour and merriment--the Rodensteiner, 'Im Schwarzen Wallfisch zu Askalon,' and the geological songs, which delighted readers of every class, and found their way into every student's songbook of Germany. The geological songs owe their origin to a course of lectures on geology which Pastor Schmezer delivered at the time. Scheffel regularly attended these lectures of his friend, and the latter was certain to find as regularly on the following morning of his lecture a poetical resume of it on his desk, in the form of a humorous poem.

What gives such a high value to these songs, and indeed to all the poetry of Scheffel, is the fact that they, in depicting the joyous vein in human nature, set forth a faithful abstract, a true poetical substratum, of the popular life and thought of South-Western Germany. If any one should fail to comprehend the spirit of Scheffel's poetry let him go to the 'joyful Palatinate,' and to its ancient capital, Heidelberg. There he will find the frank, merry, and humorous characters of Scheffel's poems, and especially the prototypes of that thirsty soul, the Rodensteiner who pawned his three villages during the revelries 'Zu Heidelberg im Hirschen,' and finally bequeathed his thirst to the students. And looking from the ruins of the castle over the beautiful valleys of the Neckar and the Rhine, he will perhaps understand the enthusiasm which our poet has for this blessed spot, in singing:

Und stechen mich die Dornen,
Und wird mir's draus zu kahl;
Geb' ich dem Pferd die Spornen,
Und reit' in's Neckarthal.

GRANITE.

In unterirdischer Kammer
Sprach grollend der alte Granit:
'Da droben den waess'rigen Jammer
Den mach' ich jetzt laenger nicht mit.'

In his lair subterranean, grumbling
Old Granite said: 'One thing is sure,
That slopping and slippery tumbling
Up yonder, no more I'll endure.
So wearily wallows the water
His billows of brine o'er the land,
'Stead of prouder and fairer and better
All is turning to slime and to sand.

'That would be a nice limestony cover,
A sweet geological swash,
If the coat of the wide world all over
Were one sedimentary wash.
By and by 'twill be myth and no true thing
What were hills--what was high or was low.
The deuce take their drifting and smoothing;
Hurrah! far eruption I go!'

So he spoke, and to aid him, pro rata,
The brave-hearted Porphyry flew,
The weak-hearted crystalline strata
He scornfully shattered in two.
With flashing and crashing and bellow,
As though the world's end were to dread,
Even Graywack, that decent old fellow,
In terror stood up on his head.

Also Stonecoal and Limestone and Trias
Fast vanished, internally mined.
Loud wailed in the Jura, the Lias,
That the wild fire had scorched him behind.
And Limestone, the marl-plot of chalkers,
Said later, in deep earnest chimes,
'Was there no one, to stop, 'mong you talkers,
This wild revolution betimes?'

But upwards through strata and fountains
Passed the conquering hero with heat,
Until from the sunniest mountains
He gazed on the world at his feet.
Then he shouted with yodling and singing,
'Hurrah! 'Twas courageously done,
Even we can be doing and bringing
What it only needs pluck to be won.'

THE ICHTHYOSAURUS.

Es rauscht in den Schachtelhalmen,
Verdaechtig leuchtet das Meer,
Da schwimmt mit Thraenen im Auge
Ein Ichthyosaurus daher.

The rushes are strangely rustling,
The ocean uncannily gleams,
As with tears in his eyes down gushing,
An Ichthyosaurus swims.

He bewails the frightful corruption
Of his age, for an awful tone
Has lately been noticed by many
In the Lias formation shown.

'The Plesiosaurus, the elder,
Goes roaring about on a spree;
The Plerodactylus even
Comes flying as drunk as can be.

'The Iguanodon, the blackguard,
Deserves to be publicly hissed,
Since he lately in open daylight
The Ichthyosaura kissed.

'The end of the world is coming,
Things can't go on long in this way;
The Lias formation can't stand it,
Is all that I've got to say!'

So the Ichthyosaur went walking
His chalks in an angry mood;[1]
The last of his sighs extinguished
In the roar and the rush of the flood.

And all of the piggish Saurians[2]
Died, too, on that dreadful day;
There were too many chalks against them,
And of course they'd the devil to pay.

And this petrifideal ditty?[3]
Who was it this song did write?
'Twas found as a fossil album leaf
Upon a coprolite.

************

[Footnote 1: Dar ward es ihm kreidig zu Muth.]

[Footnote 2:

Die ganze Saurierei
Sie kamen zu tief in die Kreide,
Da war es natuerlich vorbei.]

[Footnote 3: Dies petrefactische Lied.]

************

THE TAZZELWORM.

Als noch ein Bergsee klar und gross
In dieser Thaeler Tiefen floss,
Hab'ich allhier in grober Pracht
Gelebt, geliebt und auch gedracht
Als Tazzelwurm.

Tazzelworm is a provincial German word for a dragon. This was a song sung at the fete of hanging up the sign of the Fiery Tazzelworm at a little mountain tavern in Rehau, on the road over the Audorfen mountain meadows, in the Tyrol.

When yet a lake from mountains grand
Ran down yon valleys through the land,
Here I a great flash vulgar thing
Lived, loved, and went a-dragoning
As Tazzelworm,

From Pentling unto Wendelstein,
Were rock and air and water mine,
I walked and flew, and kicked and rolled,
And 'stead of hay I slept on gold,
As Tazzelworm.

My scaly skin was all of horn,
And fire I spit since I was born;
Whatever up the mountain came,
I killed and gobbled it for game,
As Tazzelworm.

But when I so forgot God's law,
And ate up shepherd maidens raw,
Came Noah's food, with all its fogs,
And knocked my business to the dogs,
As Tazzelworm.

And now you see me painted, shine
On Schweinesteiger's bran-new sign.
The shepherd maidens laugh in choir,
And not a mortal fears the fire
Of Tazzelworm.

And oft some learned chap will shout
Before my eyes: 'His games played out!
He lived before the flood washed round,
But men of science never found
A Tazzelworm.'

Weak-minded sceptic! enter here,
Mix up Tyroler wine and beer,
But ere you come to Kuffstein--whew!
You'll find that I have breathed on you,
As Tazzelworm.

And Klausen's landlord sad will say,
'By Jove--whence did those fellows stray?
Their legs are loose--their heads arn't firm,
They all have seen the Tazzelworm,
The Tazzelworm.'

THE MEGATHERIUM.

Was haengt denn dort bewegungslos
Zum Knaul zusammgeballt
So riesenfaul und riesengross
Im Ururururwald?
Dreifach so wuchtig als ein Stier,
Dreifach so schwer und dumm--
Ein Kletterthier, ein Krallenthier:
Das Megatherium!

Vide Cuvier, Ossemens fossiles, v. 1, p. 174. tab. 61. The Megatherium was a gigantic sloth.

What hangs there like a frozen pig,
Or knot all twisted rude?
So giant lazy, giant big,
In the prim--rim--aeval wood?
Thrice bigger than a bull--at least
Thrice heavier, and dumb--
A climbing and a clawing beast,
The Megatherium!

All dreamily it opes its jaws
And glares so lazily,
Then digs with might its cutting claws
In the Embahuba tree.
It eats the fruit, it eats the leaf,
Soft, happy, grunting 'Ai!'
And when they're gone, as if with grief,
Occasionally goes 'Wai!'

But from the tree it never crawls.
It knows a shorter way;
For like a gourd adown it falls,
And will not hence away.
With owly eyes awhile it hums,
Smiles wondrously and deep;
For after good long feeding comes
Its main hard work--to sleep.

Oh, sceptic mortal--brassy, bold,
Wilt thou my words deride?
Go to Madrid and there behold
His bones all petrified.
And if thou hast before them stood,
Remember these my rhymes.
Such laziness held only good
In antdiluvian times.

Thou art no Megatherium,
Thy soul has aims divine,
Then mind your studies, all and some,
And eat not like a swine.
Use well your time--'tis money worth,
Yea, work till death you see.
And should you yield to sloth and mirth,
Do it not sloath--somely![4]

************

[Footnote 4: In the original

Und steckst Du doch im faulen Pelz
So fall mit Vorsicht ab.

The Gasthaus zum Faulen Pelz is a beerhouse in Heidelberg.]

************

THE BASALT.

Mag der basaltene Mohrenstein
Zum Schreck es erzaehlen im Lande,
Wie er gebrodelt in Flammenschein
Und geschwaerzt entstiegen dem Brande:
Brenn's drunten noch Jahr aus Jahr ein
Beim Wein soll uns nicht bange sein,
Nein, nein!
Soll uns nicht bange sein!

F. v. Kobell. Urzeit der Erde, p. 33.

Es war der Basalt ein juengerer Sohn
Aus altvulcanischem Hause,
Er lebte lang verkannt und gedrueckt
In erdtief verborgener Clause.

Sir basalt was a younger son
Of that oldest race, the Vulcanian,
And he lived for ages oppressed and unknown
In a cavern deep subterranean.

So they goaded and jeered the lover forlorn,--
'Art thou yearning for rainy weather?
You will get but a mitten, and the scorn
Of all the formations together.

'Uncle Rocksalt said to the Lime and smiled,
And the billows sneer it higher,
"How can the Ocean's third-born child
Be a bride to this scum of Fire?"'

What happened next was never known;
But at once into madness crashing,
In a fiery blaze he was upwards thrown,
His wild veins glaring and flashing.

Loud raving he sprang to the air in haste,
And scorching all, fast hurried;
Bursting the strata's mountain waste
Beneath which he long was buried.

And she whom he once had worshipped, broke,
And was crushed as a mere obstruction;
He laughed in scorn, and whirling in smoke,
Stormed on to fresh destruction.

And blow on blow--a terrible roar
Of thousands of storms wild crashing;
The earth burst open and trembled all o'er.
With a shaking and breaking and dashing.

Till in majesty the fiery flood
Flew up from the rifts in fountains,
And scattered with ruins land and flood
Bowed down to the columned mountains.

There he stood and gazed on the blue air free,
And the sun with its sweet attraction,
Then heavily sighed--it blew cool from the sea--
And he sank in petrifaction.

Yet still in the rock may be heard in rhyme
A wondrous tuning and ringing,
As though he would from his youthful time
A song of love be singing.

And a gold yellow drop of natrolite
From the dark stone oft comes peeping;
Those are the tears which Sir Basalt
For his crushed love ever is weeping.

THE BOULDER.

Einst ziert' ich, den Aether durchspaehend,
Als Spitze des Urgebirg's Stock,
Ruhm, Hoheit und Stellung verschmaehend,
Ward ich zum erratischen Block.

Once high on the mountain-peak rising,
In sunlight I shone like a flame;
But height and position despising,
A wandering boulder became.

They say of a thinker's bold sallies,
He goes where the ice will not bear;
I was beckoned to false hollow valleys,
By snow maids, seductive and fair.

Thus driven by furious fancies,
I went down the hill with a shout;
But atoned for my youthful romances
By a thousand years rolling about.

Cried the Glacier, his teeth sharply showing,
Here, my blade, you'll be polished right well,
And from my moraine-offal going,
As a stranger be borne from the dell.

Then be scratched and be scraped and be driven,
I rolled to a rock that was cracked,
But with blows was knocked upward to heaven,
Be twisted, be puffed, and be whacked.

Just try to be proper and decent
In chaotic upheavals of mud!
Down I sunk, down to periods recent,
When the ice wall went off in the flood.

And rough is the role he unravels
Who plays in an ice part--ah, me!
On a flake I set out on my travels,
And the ice cake soon melted at sea.

Plimp, plump! down I went to the bottom,
For ages lay sleeping in clay,
Until the heat finally caught 'em,
And Glacier and Flood dried away.

Then the Sun, with a hotter light blazing,
Shone down where the billows once played;
And with the rhinoceros grazing,
The mammoth was seen in the glade.

Now we from the driving ice fast-time
Are useful, although it be late,
And to heathen and Christian for pastime
Give stones for the Church and the State.

* * * * *

Two geologists made up this ditty
In the vale between Aare and Reuss;
And the inn where they sang it, so witty,
Was all built of boulders of gneiss.

They sang with deep feeling dramatic,
To the landscape of Findling so fine;
Then went like two boulders erratic,
Both tumbling and stumbling with wine.

THE COMET.

Ich armer Komet in dem himmlischen Feld
Wie ist's doch so windig mit mir bestellt!
Ich leb' in steten Sorgen,
Mein Licht selbst muss ich borgen ...
Ich erscheine nur von Zeit zu Zeit
Dann muss ich wieder fort in die Dunkelheit.

I a poor comet on high, you see,
How windy and wild is my destiny!
I live in constant sorrow,
My light e'en I must borrow;
I only appear from time to time,
Then must wander away in gloom and grime.

By lady Sun I'm ever distracted,
And to her by power magnetic attracted;
Yet she will not endure
That I should rise up to her,
I must long for her from flights afar,
For, alas! I'm in fact an eccentric star.

The fixed stars all in bitter fun
Declare I'm a lost and prodigal son.
They say I still go tottering
Here, there, among them pottering,
And where I once on my way have been
Nothing but dimness and darkness are seen.

The planets regard me with scorn, and say
That I always come bothering in their way.
Dame Venus and her sisters
Call me one of those crazy twisters,
'His tail is too great, and his nucleus too small.
Such an ill-made night stroller's worth nothing at all.'

That I'm a scandal they cry or lisp,
And call me a dreamer or Will-o'-the-wisp.
And down on earth a-squinting,
I see the learned ones printing,
'He's neither firm nor settled, nor would be,
Though he should spin to all eternity.'

E'en Humboldt, who handles nothing lightly,
Treats me in his Cosmos far from politely,
And should he write--I ask all--
And am I such a rascal?--
'The wandering comet, much thinner than foam,
With the smallest corps takes up the greatest room.'

But bide yon star-gazing spitefuls!--bide?
You don't know me yet from the innermost side.
Some day I'll catch you--curse ye?
And make you cry for mercy?
Then you'll go through me, and I'll meet your hope,
For with meteors I'll smash up your telescope.

GUANO SONG.

Ich weiss eine friedliche Stelle
Im schweigenden Ocean,
Krystallhell schaeumet die Welle
Zum Felsengestade hinan.

I know of a peaceful island
Afar in the silent sea,
Where around the rocky highland
Pure billows are foaming free.
In the harbour no ship is resting,
No sailor is on the strand;
And thousands of white birds nesting,
Are the guards of the lonely land.

Ever pondering pious questions,
They labour right faithfully,
For blessed are their digestions,
And flowing like poetry.
For the birds are all 'Philosophen,'
To the principal precept inclined;
If the body be properly open,
Then all will go well with the mind.

And the children pursue more enlightened
What their fathers in silence begun.
To a mountain it rises, and whitened
By rays of a tropical sun.
In the rosiest light these sages
Look down at the future and say,
In the course of historical ages
We shall fill up the ocean some day.

And the recognition of merit
Is theirs in these later days,
For in Suabian land we hear it
When the Boeblinger Rapsbauer[5] says:
'God bless you--guano sea-gull,
Of the far away coast of the west:
In spite of my countryman Hegel,
The stuff which you make is the best.'

************

[Footnote 5: Boeblinger Rapsbauer. A Boebling farmer who plants rape-seed. Boeblingen is the Little Pedlington of Germany. It is possible that the author intimates by this name the title of a very obscure provincial newspaper.--Translator.]

************

ASPHALTUM.

Bestreuet aie Haeupter mit Asche,
Verhaltet die Nasen euch bang,
Heut giebt's bei truebfliessender Flasche
Einen bituminoesen Gesang.

Strew, strew all your heads with ashes,
Hold your noses firmly and long;
I sing by the lightning's pale flashes
A wild and bituminous song.

The wind of the desert is sweeping,
Like fire by the dead Dead Sea;
There a Dervish appointment is keeping,
With a maiden from Galilee.

'Twas ever a salty engulpher,
In horrors excessively rich;
In Lot's time there were lots of sulphur,
And to-day it is piteous on pitch.

No washwoman comes with a bucket,
No thirsty man comes with a mug;
For the one who would venture to suck it
Would wish that his grave had been dug.

Not a breath of a breeze is blowing,
No waves on the waters fall,
Though a strong smell of naphtha is flowing,
They said, 'We don't mind it at all.'

Two dark brown lumps were lying
Like rocks on the Dead Sea shore,
And while tenderly loving and sighing
They sat down there--to rise no more.

For the rock was pitch-naphtha which would not
Allow them to stir e'en a stitch,
And seated in concert, they could not
Rise up above concert pitch.

Then all the disaster comprising,
They wailed aloud: 'Allah is great!
We stick and we stick--there's no rising,
We stick and forever must wait!'

There they sat like a lost pot and kettle,
Their wails o'er the wilderness passed;
They mummified little by little,
And were turned to Asphaltum at last.

A little bird flew for assistance,
Away to the townlet of Zoar;
But benumbed it fell down in the distance,
It smelt so, it fluttered no more.

And shuddering and pale as if flurried,
A pilgrim procession went in--
From the smell of the benzine it hurried
So fast you'd not say 't had been seen.

MORAL.

In love or in turning a penny
Always study the field of your luck;
In petroleum and naphtha full many
Ere now have been terribly 'stuck.'

THE PILE BUILDER.
A Lacustrine Lyric.

Dichtqualmende Nebel umfeuchten
Ein Pfahlbaugeruestwerk im See
Und fern ob der Waldwildniss leuchten
Die Alpen in ewigem Schnee.

Damp smoky-like vapour is streaming
O'er piles in the waters below.
And far o'er the forest are gleaming
The Alps in perpetual snow.

A man on a wood block is sitting
In furs, for the wind-draught is strong:
With a flint chip a deer-horn splitting,
While he mournfully murmurs a song:

'See my face swollen up like the devil!
Remark how in wind, as it spins,
The history of Europe primaeval
With rheumatics and toothache begins!

'It is true that with stone-axe employment,
Or with celts I can hammer my way,
But no rational means of enjoyment
Is known to the world in this day.

'Wild animals, wolfish or beary,
Howl fierce round my forest-tree brown;
And when I build huts on the prairie
The buffaloes batter them down.

'And so, to the beaver a debtor,
I build for myself in the flood;
The further from firm land the better,
A pile-dam in shingle and mud.

'But much I am forced to dispense with
What ages to come will behold;
I'd be glad of a good sword to fence with,
But as yet there's no iron or gold.

'In stocks I would gladly grow wealthy,
But exchange is not yet understood:
A good glass of beer would be healthy;
But never a drop has been brewed.

'And then how my horror increases
To think of our cookery rude!
How we crack a pig's bones into pieces,
And suck out the marrow for food.

'And how can the soul be expected
To form an ideal of taste,
When nothing but poles are erected
Around in a watery waste?'

He sang With a voice hoarse and failing,
With rheumatics his temper was grim;
Two wild bears slipped over the poling,
And, climbing, came snapping at him.

Down he threw, as with anger he flushes,
Axe, deer-horn, and drink-cup of clay,
Sprang, splash! like a frog to the rushes,
And paddled with curses away.

Where once the Lacustrians plying,
Drove many a pillar or stake,
A strata of relics is lying
'Neath the mud and the turf of the lake.

And he who this song made for singing,
Himself through those layers has mined,
And the relics to daylight upbringing,
Felt pride as a mortal refined.

HESIOD.

Licht gluehte des Helicon Klippe
In Mittagspurpur und Blau.

Light gleamed upon Helicon's mountain
In the purple of mid-day and blue,
As by Aganippe's clear fountain
A shepherd boy slept in the dew.
In seeking the lambs of his master,
From Askra, he'd roamed through the wood,
But now all the strength of the pastor
By the heat of the sun was subdued.

Then from sun-lighted fields of old story,
Came Nine who were heavenly fair;
Their limbs were of beauty a glory,
And a glory of gold was their hair.
They moved as in musical numbers,
To the grove, Aganippe across,
And laid by the youth in his slumbers,
Their gifts in the emerald moss.

The first a bronze style like a feather,
The second an inkstand of brass,
The third a neat album in leather,
The fourth a Bohemian glass,
The fifth gave red wax and a taper,
The sixth a gold eye-glass and sheath,
The seventh cigars wrapped in paper,
The eighth a sweet asphodel wreath.

The ninth bent her knee in the heather,
And kissed him full tender and true,
Then vanished on high in the aether
As angels invariably do.
Up sprung the young dreamer and panted
And sang in a measure sublime,
And swung, like a creature enchanted,
A twig of wild laurel in time.

Then up came his friends 'mong the peasants
And praised his good fortune that day,
And led him with all his fine presents
To Askra in festive array:
And there all the wisest or rudest,
Considered the matter in doubt,
Until the Nomarchos as shrewdest
To Boeotia this sentence gave out.

'To him heaven opens a portal,
No more at the flocks let him look.
He is destined to be an immortal,
Write poems--and publish a book.'
They found him a rod neat and slender,
In long garments they gave him to God;
Then he wrote them the Farmer's Calender,
And Theogony too--Hesiod.

MODERN GREEK.
BY ATHANASIOS CHRISTOPOULOS.

[Greek: Plouton den thelo
Doxan den thelo
Out' exousian
Pote kammian.]

[Greek: Den thelo gnosin
Oute kan tosen
hOs' ein tou phullou
Ki hos' ein tou xulou.]

[Greek: Toutes he krues
E phantasies
hOso euphainoun
Toso pikrainoun.]

TRANSLATION.

Reichthum und Ehre
Nimmer ich 'gehre;
Herrschaft und Wuerde;
Waer mir nur Buerde.

I never desire
Wealth or fame to acquire
Honour and station
Were but vexation.

And to be learned
I'm no more concerned,
Than in the thicket
Are field-mouse and cricket.

All those cold cheating
Phantom forms fleeting,
'Stead of reviving,
Are vexing and driving.

MODERN GREEK.

[Greek: Thelo eirenen
Psuches galenen
Chorous eroton
Trelais kai kroton.]

[Greek: Thelo tragoudia,
Kepous, louloudia
Kai choratadais
'Stais prasinadais.]

[Greek: Touta latreuo
Touta xeleuo
K' heis tout' apano
Thel 'na 'pothano.]

TRANSLATION.

To me be given
The sweet peace of heaven,
A heart quiet resting,
Frolic and jesting!

Dramas sweet ringing,
Ball play and singing,
Music entrancing,
Wild whirling dancing!

Such I require,
Such I desire,
Rose-crowned, so
To the bier I would go!

PUMPUS OF PERUSIA.

Feucht hing die Sonne. Des Novembers Schauer ging
Mit leisem Froesteln durch das Land Hetruria.

_Anpumpen, to pump, is a German slang term for borrowing. Pumpus was the name of an Etruscan prince_.

Dim was the sunlight, and November shivering
Ran with a light frost o'er the land Etruria,
A gentle head-ache of the last night's origin,
Went threading through the air with weary pinion-beat;
A weak and bankrupt feeling lay on hill and dale,
The sacred olive tree, whose last thin yellow leaf
Thrilled in the wind, stretched mournfully its branches forth
Barren and bare, as wanting what was needfullest;
E'en the street pavement was suspicious. To the eye
The old primaeval basalt's firm material
Seemed changed that day to very porous carbonate,
And all things--all things--all things had a seedy look.

Such was the day when, in the early morning hour,
A weary wight from Populonia's portal went;
In vain the guard on the Cyclopean city wall
Cast on the lord a hopeful glance for drink-money,--
He drew him back--and glared at him--and gave nothing.
There where the road goes winding towards Suessulae,
And some old priest's strange ten-pin-towered monument
Mournfully casts a shadow o'er the bleaching field,
He paused awhile--in the reed grass stuck his javelin,
And in his chlamys foldings sadly sought awhile,
Then sought again--then made one more experiment--
Yet found not what he sought for.

Oh, who knows the pain
Which rears up horse-like in a brave Etruscan heart
When all things--all things--all things tend to poverty,
And the horror of the Empty in the pocket dwells
Where once the sesterce gaily by the denar rang!

The helm removing from his heavy-laden head,
He raised his right hand to his forehead thoughtfully,
His tearful glance went back to Populonia,
And lurid lightning flickered from his hero-eye.

'Oh thou Chimaera Tavern!' said he mournfully,
'Was that the end of 't? Meant that the flock of birds
Which three days past went croaking to the left hand side?
Said that the oxen's, entrails enigmatical?
Oh thou Chimaera Tavern, what is pleasanter
Than entering as a guest into thy guest-chamber?
There neatly waits the experienced tavern-keeper;
And heroes round the cool wine are convivial;
Around the noble hill-descended Dimeros.
From drinking mouths comes wisdom flowing thoughtfully,
While at the upper linen-covered long table,
Where Tegulinum's augur to the latest hour,
Sternly defying, stands it like a bronze column,
And sings in glees; that wonderful astrologer;--
Oh thou Chimaera Tavern, tell--if possible--
Whither goes hurrying?--ha! what was't I nearly spoke?--
What word--thrice god-curst word--on which--oh horrible!
Hangs the Etruscan fate--ay, that's it--Ready Money!
Oh Fufluns! Fufluns! Bacchus--dark and terrible!
Now all is gone--away and gone away--ha--hummm!
And yet a deed, I swear 't shall now by me be done,
Such as the stupid world in dream has never dreamed,
Shuddering and cold--my name shall to posterity
By this one deed be carried, awful, horrible,
As true as I by this priest's grave am standing now,
I--Pumpus of Perusia, the Etruscan prince.'
He said--and went. A sunbeam fell uncannily
On spear and helm. Cold light was o'er the cypresses,
Deep the gale sighed--grave-deep--like moaning far-away.

The world was innocent then. As yet no one had known
The law of contracts with its windings intricate,
And e'en the sage in silver beard was ignorant
Of loans or such a deed as money borrowing;
Yet on that day i' the forest by Suessulae
One hero by another bold was borrowed from!
This is the song of Pumpus of Perusia.

THE TEUTOBURGER BATTLE.

Als die Roemer frech geworden,
Zogen sie nach Deutschlands Norden,
Vorne beim Trompetenschall
Ritt der Generalfeldmarschall
Herr Quinctilius Varus.

When the Romans, rashly roving,
Into Germany were moving,
First of all--to flourish, partial--
Rode 'mid trumps the great field-martial,
Sir Quinctilius Varus.

But in the Teutoburgian forest
How the north wind blew and chor-rused;
Ravens flying through the air,
And there was a perfume there
As of blood and corpses.

All at once, in sock and buskins
Out came rushing the Cheruskins
Howling, 'Gott und Vaterland!'
They went in with sword in hand,
Against the Roman legions.

Ah, it was an awful slaughter,
And the cohorts ran like water;
But of all the foe that day,
The horsemen only got away,
Because they were on horseback.

O Quinctilius! wretched general,
Knowest thou not that such our men are all?
In a swamp he fell--how shocking!
Lost two boots, a left-hand stocking.
And, besides, was smothered.

Then, with his temper growing wusser.
Said to Centurion Titiusser,
'Pull your sword out--never mind,
And bore me through with it behind,
Since the game is busted.'

Scaevola, of law a student,
Fine young fellow--but imprudent
As a youth of tender years,
Served among the volunteers,--
He was also captured.

E'en his hoped-for death was baffled,
For ere they got him to the scaffold
He was stabbed quite unaware,
And nailed fast en derriere
To his Corpus Juris.

When this forest fight was over
Hermann rubbed his hands in clover;
And to do the thing up right,
The Cheruscans did invite
To a first-rate breakfast.

But in Rome the wretched varmints
Went to purchase morning garments;
Just as they had tapped a puncheon,
And Augustus sat at luncheon,
Came the mournful story.

And the tidings so provoked him,
That a peacock leg half choked him,
And he cried--beyond control--
'Varus--Varus--d--n your soul!
Redde legiones!'

His German slave, Hans Schmidt be-christened,
Who in the corner stood and listened,
Remarked, 'Der teufel take me wenn
He efer kits dose droops acain,
For tead men ish not lifin.'

Now, in honour of the story,
A monument they'll raise for glory.
As for pedestal--they've done it;
But who'll pay for a statue on it
Heaven alone can tell us.

OLD ASSYRIAN--JONAH.

Im schwarzen Wallfisch zu Ascalon
Da trank ein Mann drei Tag',
Bis dass er steif wie ein Besenstiel
Am Marmortische lag.

In the Black Whale at Ascalon
A man drank day by day,
Till, stiff as any broom-handle,
Upon the floor he lay.

In the Black Whale at Ascalon
The landlord said: 'I say,
He's drinking of my date-juice wine
Much more than he can pay!'

In the Black Whale at Ascalon
The waiters brought the bill,
In arrow-heads on six broad tiles
To him who thus did swill.

In the Black Whale at Ascalon
The guest cried out: 'O woe!
I spent in the Lamb at Nineveh
My money long ago!'

In the Black Whale at Ascalon
The clock struck half-past four
When the Nubian porter he did pitch
The stranger from the door.

In the Black Whale at Ascalon
No prophet hath renown;
And he who there would drink in peace
Must pay the money down.

BY THE BORDER.

Ein Roemer stand in finstrer Nacht
Am deutschen Grenzwall Posten,
Fern vom Castell war seine Wacht,
Das Antlitz gegen Osten.

Barritum civere vel maximum. Qui clamor ipso fervore certaminum a tenui susurro exoriens paullatimque adolescens situ extollitur fluctuum cantibus illisorum.--Ammian. Marcellin. xvi. 12.

A Roman stood in midnight lost,
For the German line selected;
Far from the castle was his post,
His glances east directed.
He heard a murmur and a fuss,
And distant voices ringing--
No paean of Horatius;
Right savage was the singing:
'Ha--haw--haw! we got ye safe at last,
Got ye by the skirt, too--got ye firm and fast,
You scamp, you!'

With a maiden of the Chatten race
He oft in love had meddled,
And sought her in a lonely place,
Disguised as one who peddled.
Now came the vengeance--one, two, three!
Now o'er the wall they're climbing,
Screeching like cats in agony,
With hatchet rattle chiming.
'Ha--haw--haw! we got you safe at last,
Got you by the skirt, too--got you firm and fast,
You scamp, you!'

He drew his sword, he blew his horn,
And like a warrior shook him;
But vain were pluck and Roman scorn--
The savage Deutschers took him.
They tied him fast, and in a word
Away with him went bounding,
And when the cohort came, it heard
Far through the pine-trees sounding:
'Ha--haw--haw I we've got him safe at last,
Got him by the skirt, too--got him firm and fast,
You scamp, you!'

In the holy grove, toward the east,
Were all the Chatten foemen,
To celebrate the Odin feast
Of Jul, with blood of Roman.
He felt himself like roasted meat
'Twixt savage grinders going;
Out sprang his blonde-haired darling sweet,
And cried with tears hot flowing:
Ha--haw--haw! I've got you safe at last,
Got you by the skirt, too--got you firm and fast,
You scamp, you!'

Then all the Chats were deeply moved
To see her thus accost him,
And said, 'Since they so well have loved,
'Twould be a shame to roast him,
Here let them wed.' This ends the tale.
'Yes, wed at once before us;
And all day long throughout the vale
We'll sing as bridal chorus,
"Ha--haw--haw! were got you safe at last,
Got you by the skirt, too--got you firm and fast,
You scamp, you!"'

HILDEBRAND AND HADUBRAND.
DAS HILDEBRANDLIED.

.... Hiltibraht enti Hathubrant.

Hildebrand und sein Sohn Hadubrand,
Hadubrand,
Ritten selbander in Wuth entbrannt,
Wuth entbrannt,
Gegen die Seestadt Venedig.
Hildebrand und sein Sohn Hadubrand,
Hadubrand,
Keiner die Seestadt Venedig fand,
--nedig fand,
Da schimpften die beiden unflaethig.

Hildebrand and his son Hadubrand,
Hadubrand,
Rode off together with sword in hand,
Sword in hand,
All to make war upon Venice.
Hildebrand and his son Hadubrand,
Hadubrand,
Neither could find the Venetian land,
'Netian land,
Dire were their curses and menace.

Hildebrand and his son Hadubrand,
Hadubrand,
Got drunk as lords in a jolly band,
--jolly band--
All the while swearing and bawling;
Hildebrand and his son Hadubrand,
Hadubrand,
Drunk till they neither could walk or stand,
Walk or stand,
Home on all fours they went crawling.

SONG OF THE TRAVELLING STUDENTS.

O liberales clerics
Nu merchet rehte wi dem si
Date: vobis dabitur
Ir suelt lan offen iwer tuer
Vagis et egentibus
So gewinnet ihr das himelhus,
Et in perenni gaudio
Alsus also, alsus also!

Pfarrherr, du kuehler, oeffne dein' Thor,
Fahrende Schueler stehen davor.
Fahrende Schueler, unstete Kind,
Singer und Spieler, wirbliger Wind.

Parson Sir Prudence, open your gate!
Travelling students your welcome await!
Travelling scholar, whimsical child!
Singer and stroller, the wind-whirling wild.
Iron throats for drinking--bellies like fires,
Gold souls unshrinking--which no one desires,
Thin garments sporting--weather so raw,
Ah--and our courting--on hay and in straw!

Parson, Sir Prudence, open your gate!
Travelling students your welcome await!
Suabia, Franconia have given us food,
Sans ceremonie--an all eating brood;
Fed us, rapacious, God keep them from harm!
Like the voracious and wild locust swarm,
What we've o'erpowered--once fertile and fair,
All is devoured--shorn barren and bare.

Parson Sir Prudence, open your gate!
Travelling students your welcome await!
Makest not thy oven free, miserly owl,
We'll haul thee to Coventry straight by the cowl.
Pull off your breeches, the shoes from your feet,
Hang them like fitches out here in the street;
He who would own it and do us a hurt,
He must atone it in stockings and shirt.

Parson Sir Prudence, open your tower!
Travelling students your bars will o'erpower!
Ho, ho, heiadihoh!
Avoy, avoy, alez avanz!
Alsus also, alsus alsus also!
Ho ho heiadihoh, hoh, ho, ho!

THE CLOISTER CELLAR MASTER'S
SUMMER MORNING SONG.

Hu weh! mir ist des Tages bang!
Tret ich hinaus in den schweigenden Bergwald
Den kaum das erste Fruehlicht erhellet,
Wehe! noch lagert die Hitze von Gestern
Ueber versengtetn Moos und Gestraeuch.

Ah me! what a dull day it is!
If I go out in the wood on the mountain
When the tops shine in the earliest sunlight,
Ah! there still lingers the dry heat of yestern
On the singed mosses and withering shrubs,
And all around me come midges by thousands,
Stinging and bold,
As if the hot sun were sprinkling in sparkles.
Wide gaping crevices split the earth round us;
Grass dries to hay before they can mow it,
And in the air sweeps
_Dust_ ....

Ah me! what a dull day it is!
If I seek by the trunk of the giant-grown beech-tree
A cool place to sit on the rough-hewn stone bench,
Where by the eight-cornered slab of the table
The brethren merrily rest in the forest,
Ah! there the stone rays a heat that is horrible,
Cannot endure me!
All because I, when just seated, so nimbly
Jumped in a hurry.
Grasshoppers sit, sound asleep, by the road-side
Quiet as can be.
_Dull_ ....

Ah me! what a dull day it is!
These are the times, hey, when people and cattle
Are scorching red-hot like the irons in a smithy!
Pour on them drops or long floods of cold water,
All would be swallowed and nothing be quenched.
Ah!--hey!--the matin bell still is a-ringing,
And I'm seized with a powerful yearning already
To go to the cloister, and down to the cellar!
Whether I'll tarry there steadily drinking
Until the night comes,
Or a loud clattering thunder in heaven
Breaks up this wearisome terrible heat,
I don't know,
Only my thirst is
_Dreadful_ ....
Ah me! what a dull day it is.

THE MAULBRONN FUGUE.

--'Wem das Kloster Maulbrunn bekandt, der hats koennen mit seinen Augen sehen, wie in dem Vorhoff selbiger schoenen erbauten Kirchen oben im Schwibbogen unter anderen Gemaelden auch eine Gans abgemalt steht, an welcher eine Flaesch, Bratwuerst, Bratspiss und dergleichen hangen, neben einer zur nassen Andacht gar wohl componirten Fuga folgenden Tenors mit ihrem unterlegten Text, gleichwohl nur den initialibus literis A. V. K. L. W. H. welches villeicht dieser durstigen Muench und Religiosen Commentarius gewest, ueber das Hohelied Salomonis: Comedite amici et bibite et inebriamini charissimi, &c., &c.'--Tob. Wagner, Evangel. Censur der Besoldischen Motiven, &c. Tuebingen, 1640.

[English.] He who knows the Abbey Maulbrunn may have seen with his own eyes how in the fore court of this beautifully built church, above in the double arch, there is painted, among other pictures, that of a goose by which hang a bottle, sausages, a roasting spit, and like things, near a well-composed fugue adapted to wet devotion, on the following theme, with the subjoined text, although with only the initial letters

A. V. K. L. W. H.

Or Alle Voll, Keiner Leer, Wein Her! meaning "All full, No one empty, Bring Wine here!"--which was perhaps the commentary of these thirsty monks and pious men on the Canticle of Solomon: Comedite amici et bibite et inebriamini charissimi, &c, &c.--Tobias Wagner, Evangel. Censur der Besoldischen Motiven, &c. Tuebingen, 1640.

Im Winterrefectorium
Zu Maulbronn in dem Kloster
Da geht was um den Tisch herum
Klingt nicht wie Paternoster;
Die Martinsgans hat woklgethan,
Eilfinger blinkt im Kruge,
Nun hebt die nasse Andacht an
Und alles singt die Fuge:
A. V. K. L. W. H.
Complete Pocula!

In the winter refectorium
Of Maulbronn, in the cloister,
One hears a merry sound and hum,
Not like a paternoster.
The Martin's goose has tasted well,
Eilfinger wine they're bringing;
Now let the wet devotion swell,
While all the fugue are singing:
A. V. K. L. W. H.
Complete Pocula!

The Abbot Duckfoot--Holy John,
Came waddling in and grumbling:
'What is't so late, when the feast is done,
To fiddles ye are mumbling?
Cease! ye disturb the Doctor Faust,
In the garden tower behind there;
If from his studies he be roused,
No gold will he e'er find there.
A. V. K. L. W. H.
Cavete scandala!'

Herr Faust sat backwards by the wall,
Alone with pleasure-drinking,
But now the sorcerer, pale and tall,
Held forth the wine red blinking.
Said he: 'I've studied making gold,
By magic sought to win it;
But now I see that I am sold,
And that there's nothing in it.
A. V. K. L. W. H.
This is the gold--aha!

'I find from Hermes Trismegist
Gold yields itself unwilling;
The sun is the true alchemist,
All fluidly distilling.
When through our veins 't has glowed and relled;
With Eilfinger we try it;
Then you have gold, have real gold,
And honourably come by it.
A. V. K. L. W. H.
Haec vera practica!'

Then laughed the Abbot. 'That sounds fair;
It sets me too to drinking,
For All Voll, Keiner Leer, Wein Her!
Is a wet fugue, I'm thinking.
As Faust's gold-proverb it shall be
Painted by the officials
In the transept. All the melody
Is found in the initials.
A. V. K. L. W. H.
Sit vino gloria!'

DER ENDERLE VON KETSCH.

This ballad is founded on an incident narrated in the description of the Palatinate by Merian (1645), where, speaking of the village Ketsch, he tells us that--'The Counte Palatine Otto Heinrich, afterwards Kurfuerst, sailed in the yeere 1530 to the Holie Lande and to Jerusalem. Returning thence, hee came over the greate open sea where a shipp from Norwaie mett him, and from it there came this crye: "Flye, flye, for ye fatt Enderle von Ketsch cometh!" Now, the Counte Palatine and his Chancellor Mueckenhaeuser knew a godless wretche of this name who dwelte at Ketsch, and therefore whenn they returned home they inquired of ye fatt Enderle and of the tyme of his deathe, and observed that itt agreed withe the tyme whenn they did heare the crye upon ye sea, as Weyland, a Professor of Heidelberg; hath narrated in divers wrytings which hee left behinde.'

The translator has endeavoured to give this version of the extract from Merian in English corresponding to the style of the original old German.

Jetzt weicht, jetzt flieht! Jetzt weicht, jetzt flieht
Mit Zittern und Zaehnegefletsch:
Jetzt weicht, jetzt flieht! Wir singen das Lied
Vom Enderle von Ketsch!

CHORUS.

'Away--along! Away--along!
With, trembling, your jaws on the stretch.
Away--along! We sing the song
Of Enderle von Ketsch!

SOLO.

Ott Heinrich the Pfalzgrave of Rhine--oh!
Spoke out of a morning; 'Rem blem!
I'm tired of the sour Hock wine--oh!
I'm off for Jerusalem.

'Far lovelier, neater, and nicer
Are the maids there who give you the cup;
Oh, Chancellor! oh, Mueckenhaeuser,
Five thousand gold ducats pack up.'

And as before Joppa they anchored
The Chancellor held up his hand:
'Now drain to the dregs your last tankard,
For the ducats are come to an end.'

Ott Heinrich said, 'Well, and no wonder,--
Rem blem! what remains to be seen!
We'll paddle for Cyprus out yonder,
And make a small raise on the Queen.'

But just as the galley was dancing
By Cyprus, in beautiful night,
A storm o'er the billows came prancing,
With thunder and flashes of light.