The Breitmann Ballads by Charles G. Leland

is dedicated to: Poul and Karen Anderson without whose inspiration it would not exist. Geoff Kidd Krista Rourke Ad Musan. “Est mihi schoena etenim et praestanti corpore liebsta Haec sola est mea Musa meoque regierit in Herza. Huic me ergebo ipsum meaque illi abstatto geluebda, Huic ebrensaulas aufrichto opfroque Geschenka, Hic etiam absingo liedros et
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is dedicated to:

Poul and Karen Anderson
without whose inspiration
it would not exist.

Geoff Kidd
Krista Rourke

Ad Musan.
“Est mihi schoena etenim et praestanti corpore liebsta Haec sola est mea Musa meoque regierit in Herza. Huic me ergebo ipsum meaque illi abstatto geluebda, Huic ebrensaulas aufrichto opfroque Geschenka, Hic etiam absingo liedros et carmina scribo.”

Rapsodia Andra, Leipzig, 17th Century

To the Edition of 1889.


Though twenty years have passed since the first appearance of the “Breitmann Ballads” in a collected form, the author is deeply gratified — and not less sincerely grateful to the public — in knowing that Hans still lives in many memories, that he continues to be quoted when writers wish to illustrate an exuberantly joyous “barty” or ladies so very fashionably dressed as to recall “de maidens mit nodings on,” and that no inconsiderable number of those who are “beginning German” continue to be addressed by sportive friends in the Breitmann dialect as a compliment to their capacity as linguists. For as a young medical student is asked by anxious intimates if he has got as far as salts, I have heard inquiries addressed to tyros in Teutonic whether they had mastered these songs. As I have realised all of this from newspapers and novels, even during the past few weeks, and have learned that a new and very expensive edition of the work has just appeared in America, I trust that I may be pardoned for a self-gratulation, which is, after all really gratitude to those who have demanded of the English publisher another issue. My chief pleasure in this — though it be mingled with sorrow — is, that it enables me to dedicate to the memory of my friend the late NICHOLAS TRUBNER the most complete edition of the Ballads ever printed. I can think of no more appropriate tribute to his memory, since he was not only the first publisher of the work in England, but collaborated with the author in editing it so far as to greatly improve and extend the whole. This is more fully set forth in the Introduction to the Glossary, which is all his own. The memory of the deep personal interest which he took in the poems, his delight in being their publisher, his fondness for reciting them, is and ever will be to me indescribably touching; such experiences being rare in any life. He was an immensely general and yet thorough scholar, and I am certain that I never met with any man in my life who to such an extensive bibliographical knowledge added so much familiarity with the contents of books. And he was familiar with nothing which did not interest him, which is rare indeed among men who MUST know something of thousands of works — in fact, he was a wonderful and very original book in himself, which, if it had ever been written out and published, would have never died. His was one of the instances which give the world good cause to regret that the art of autobiography is of all others the one least taught or studied. There are few characters more interesting than those in which the practical man of business is combined with the scholar, because of the contrasts, or varied play of light and shadow, in them, and this was, absolutely to perfection, that of Mr. Trubner. And if I have re-edited this work, it was that I might have an opportunity of recording it.

There are others to whom I owe sincere gratitude for interest displayed in this work when it was young. The first of these was the late CHARLES ASTOR BRISTED of New York. With the exception of the “Barty,” most of the poems in the first edition were written merely to fill up letters to him, and as I kept no copy of them, they would have been forgotten, had he not preserved and printed them after a time in a sporting paper. Nor would they even after this have appeared (though Mr. Bristed once tried to surprise me with a privately printed collection of them, which attempt failed) had not Mr. RINGWALT, my collaborator on the PHILADELPHIA PRESS, and also a printer, had such faith in the work as to have it “set up” in his office, offering to try an edition for me. This was transferred to PETERSON BROTHERS, in whose hands the sale became at once very great; and I should be truly ungrateful if I omitted to mention among the many writers who were very kind in reviews, Mr. GEORGE A. SALA, who was chiefly influential in introducing Hans Breitmann to the English public, and who has ever been his warmest friend. Another friend who encouraged and aided me by criticism was the late OCTAVE DELEPIERRE, a man of immense erudition, especially in archaeology, curiosa and facetiae. I trust that I may be pardoned for here mentioning that he often spoke of Breitmann’s “Interview with the Pope” as his favorite Macaronic poem, which, as he had published two volumes of Macaronea, was praise indeed. His theory was, that as Macaronics were the ultra-extravagance of poetry, he who wrote most recklessly in them did best; in fact, that they should excel in first-rate BADNESS; and from this point of view it is possible that Breitmann’s Latin lyric is not devoid of merit, since assuredly nobody ever wrote a worse. The late LORD LYTTON, or “Bulwer,” was also kind enough to take an interest in these Ballads, which was to me as gratifying as it was amazing. It was one of the great surprises of my life. I have a long letter from him, addressed to me on the appearance of the collected edition, in 1870. In it he spoke with warmest compliment of the poem of “Leyden,” and the first verses of “Breitmann in Belgium.”

In conclusion, I acknowledge the courtesy of Messers. DALZIELL BROTHERS for allowing me to republish here four poems which had appeared in the “Brand New Ballads” published by them in 1885. But to mention all of the people of whom I have grateful memories in connection with the work, who have become acquainted with me through it, or written to me, or said pleasant words, would be impossible. I am happy to think it would embrace many of the Men of the Times during the last twenty years — and unfortunately too many who are now departed. And trusting that the reader will take in good part all that I have said, I remain, — his true friend (for truly there is no friend dearer than a devoted reader),




When HANS BREITMANN’S PARTY, WITH OTHER BALLADS, appeared, the only claim made on its behalf was, that it constituted the first book ever written in English as imperfectly spoken by Germans. The author consequently held himself bound to give his broken English a truthful form. So far as observation and care, aided by the suggestions of well-educated German friends, could enable him to do this, it was done. But the more extensive were his observations, the more did the fact force itself upon his mind, that there is actually no well-defined method or standard of “German-English,” since not only do no two men speak it alike, but no one individual is invariably consistent in his errors or accuracies. Every reader who knows any foreign language imperfectly is aware that HE SPEAKS IT BETTER AT ONE TIME THAN ANOTHER, and it would consequently have been a grave error to reduce the broken and irregular jargon of the book to a fixed and regular language, or to require that the author should invariably write exactly the same mispronunciations with strict consistency on all occasions.

The opinion — entirely foreign to any intention of the author — that Hans Breitmann is an embodied satire on everything German, has found very few supporters, and it is with the greatest gratification that he has learned that educated and intelligent Germans regard Hans as a jocose burlesque of a type which is every day becoming rarer. And if Teutonic philosophy and sentiment, beer, music, and romance, have been made the medium for what many reviewers have kindly declared to be laughter-moving, let the reader be assured that not a single word was meant in a bitter or unkindly spirit. It is true that there is always a standpoint from which any effort may be misjudged, but this standpoint certainly did not occur to the writer when he wrote, with anything but misgiving, of his “hearty, hard-fighting, good-natured old ex-student,” who, in the political ballads and others, appears to no moral disadvantage by the side of his associates.

Breitmann in several ballads is indeed a very literal copy or combination of characteristics of men who really exist or existed, and who had in their lives embraced as many extremes of thought as the Captain. America abounds with Germans, who, having received in their youth a “classical education,” have passed through varied adventures, and often present the most startling paradoxes of thought and personal appearance. I have seen bearing a keg a porter who could speak Latin fluently. I have been in a beer-shop kept by a man who was distinguished in the Frankfurt Parliament. I have found a graduate of the University of Munich in a negro minstrel troupe. And while mentioning these as proof that Breitmann, as I have depicted him, is not a contradictory character, I cannot refrain from a word of praise as to the energy and patience with which the German “under a cloud” in America bears his reverses, and works cheerfully and uncomplainingly, until, by sheer perseverance, he, in most cases, conquers fortune. In this respect the Germans, as a race, and I might almost say as individuals, are superior to any others on the American continent. And if I have jested with the German new philosophy, it is with the more seriousness that I here acknowledge the deepest respect for that true practical philosophy of life — that well-balanced mixture of stoicism and epicurism — which enables Germans to endure and to ENJOY under circumstances when other men would probably despair.

Breitmann is one of the battered types of the men of ’48 — a person whose education more than his heart has in every way led him to entire scepticism or indifference — and one whose Lutheranism does not go beyond “Wein, Weib, und Gesang.” Beneath his unlimited faith in pleasure lie natural shrewdness, an excellent early education, and certain principles of honesty and good fellowship, which are all the more clearly defined from his moral looseness in details which are identified in the Anglo-Saxon mind with total depravity. In such a man, the appreciation of the beautiful in nature may be keen, but it will continually vanish before humour or mere fun; while having no deep root in life or interests in common with the settled Anglo-Saxon citizen, he cannot fail to appear at times to the latter as a near relation to Mephistopheles. But his “mockery” is as accidental and naif as that of Jewish Young Germany is keen and deliberate; and the former differs from the latter as the drollery of Abraham a Santa Clara differs from the brilliant satire of Heine.

The reader should be fairly warned that these poems abound in words, phrases, suggestions, and even couplets, borrowed to such an extent from old ballads and other sources, as to make acknowledgement in many cases seem affectation. Where this has appeared to be worth the while, it has been done. The lyrics were written for a laugh — without anticipating publication, so far as a number of the principal ones in the first volume were concerned, and certainly without the least idea that they would be extensively and closely criticised by eminent and able reviewers. Before the compilation the “Barty” had almost passed from the writer’s memory, several other songs of the same character by him were quite forgotten, while a number had formed portions of letters to friends, by one of whom a few were published in a newspaper. When finally urged by many who were pleased with “Breitmann” to issue these humble lyrics in book form, it was with some difficulty that the first volume was brought together.

The excuse for the foregoing observations is the unexpected success of a book which is of itself of so eccentric a character as to require some explanation. For its reception from the public, and the kindness and consideration with which it has been treated by the press, the author can never be sufficiently grateful.

London, 1871.







“HANS BREITMANN GIFE A BARTY” – the first of the poems here submitted to the English public – appeared originally in 1857, in Graham’s Magazine, in Philadelphia, and soon became widely known. Few American poems, indeed, have been held in better or more constant remembrance than the ballad of “Hans Breitmann’s Barty;” for the words just quoted have actually passed into a proverbial expression. The other ballads of the present collection, likewise published in several newspapers, were first collected in 1869 by Mr. Leland, the translator of Heine’s “Pictures of Travel” and “Book of Songs,” and author of Meister Karl’s Sketch -Book,” Philadelphia, 1856 and “Sunshine in Thought,” New York, 1863. They are much of the same character as “The Barty” – most of them celebrating the martial career of “Hans Breitmann,” whose prototype was a German, serving during the war in the 15th Pennsylvanian cavalry, and who – we have it on good authority – was a man of desperate courage whenever a cent could be made, and one who never fought unless something could be made. The “rebs” “gobbled” him one day; but he re-appeared in three weeks overloaded with money and valuables. One of the American critics remarks: – “Throughout all the ballads it is the same figure presented – an honest ‘Deutscher,’ drunk with the New World as with new wine, and rioting in the expression of purely Deutsch nature and half-Deutsch ideas through a strange speech.”

The poems are written in the dull broken English (not to be confounded with the Pennsylvanian German) spoken by millions of – mostly uneducated – Germans in America, immigrants to a great extent from southern Germany. Their English has not yet become a distinct dialect; and it would even be difficult to fix at present the varieties in which it occurs. One of its prominent peculiarities, however, is easily perceived: it consists in the constant confounding of the soft and hard consonants; and the reader must well bear it in mind when translating the language that meets his eye into one to become intelligible to his ear. Thus to the German of our poet, kiss becomes giss; company – gompany; care – gare; count – gount; corner – gorner; till – dill; terrible – derrible; time – dime; mountain – moundain; thing – ding; through – droo; the – de; themselves – demselves; other – oder; party – barty; place – blace; pig – big; priest – breest; piano – biano; plaster – blaster; fine – vine; fighting – vighting; fellow – veller; or, vice versa, he sounds got – cot; green – creen; great – crate; gold dollars – cold tollars; dam – tam; dreadful – treadful; drunk – troonk; brown – prown; blood – ploot; bridge – pridge; barrel – parrel; boot – poot; begging – peggin’; blackguard – plackguart; rebel – repel; never – nefer; river – rifer; very – fery; give – gife; victory – fictory; evening – efening; revive – refife; jump – shoomp; join – choin; joy – choy; just – shoost; joke – choke; jingling – shingling;, &c.; or, through a kindred change, both – bofe; youth – youf; but mouth – mout’; earth – eart’; south – sout’; waiting – vaiten;’ was – vas; widow – vidow; woman – voman; work – vork; one – von; we – ve, &c. And hence, by way of a compound mixture, we get from him drafel for travel, derriple for terrible, a daple-leck for a table-leg, bepples for pebbles, tisasder for disaster, schimnastig dricks for gymnastic tricks, let-bencil for lead-pencil, &c. The peculiarity of Germans pronouncing in their mother tongue s like sh when it is followed by a t or p, and of Germans in southern Germany often also final s like sh, naturally produced in their American jargon such results as shplit, shtop, shtraight, shtar, shtupendous, shpree, shpirit, &c; ish(is), ash(as), &c.; and, by analogy led to shveet(sweet), schwig(swig), &c. We need not notice, however, more than these freaks of the German-American-English of the present poems, as little as we need advert to simple vulgarisms also met with in England, such as the omission of the final g in words terminating in ing (blayin’ – playing; shpinnen’ – spinning; ridin’, sailin’, roonin’, &c.). We must, of course, assume that the reader of this little volume is well acquainted both with English and German.

The reader will perceive that the writer has taken another flight in “Hans Breitmann’s Christmas,” and many of the later ballads, from what he did in those preceding; and exception might be taken to his choice of subjects, and treatment of them, if the language employed by him were a fixed dialect – that is, a language arrested at a certain stage of its progress; for in that case he would have had to subordinate his pictures to the narrow sphere of the realistic incidents of a given locality. But the imperfect English utterances of the German, newly arrived in America, coloured more or less by the peculiarities of his native idiom, do not make, and never will make a dialect, for the simple reason that, in proportion to his intelligence, his opportunities, and the length of time spent by him among his new English-speaking countrymen, he will sooner or later rid himself of the crudenesses of his speech, thus preventing it from becoming fixed. Many of the Germans who have emigrated and are still emigrating to America belong to the well-educated classes, and some possess a very high culture. Our poet has therefore presented his typical German, with perfect propriety, in a variety of situations which would be imperceptible within which the the dialect necessarily moves, and has endowed him with character, even where the local colour is wanting.

In “Breitmann in Politics,” we are on purely American ground.

In it the Germans convince themselves that, as their hero can no longer plunder the rebels, he ought to plunder the nation, and they resolve on getting him elected to the State Legislature. They accordingly form a committee, and formulate for their candidate six “moral ideas” as his platform. These they show to their Yankee helper, Hiram Twine, who, having changed his politics fifteen times, and managed several elections, knows how matters should be handled. He says the moral ideas are very fine, but not worth a “dern;” and instead of them proclaims the true cry, that Breitmann is sound upon the goose, about which he tells a story. Then it is reported that the German cannot win, and that, as he is a soldier, he has been sent into the political field only to lead the forlorn hope and get beaten. In answer to this, Twine starts the report that Smith has sold the fight to Breitmann, a notion which the Americans take to at once –

“For dey mostly dinked id de naturalest ding as efer couldt pefall For to sheat von’s own gonstituents is de pest mofe in de came, Und dey nefer sooposed a Dootchman hafe de sense to do de same.”

Accordingly, Breitmann calls a meeting of Smith’s supporters, tells them that he hopes to get a good place for his friend Smith, though he cannot approve of Smith’s teetotal principles, because he, Breitmann, is a republican, and the meaning of that word is plain: – “… If any enlightened man vill seeken in his Bibel, he will find dat a publican is a barty ash sells lager; und de ding is very blain, dat a re-publican ish von who sells id ‘gain und ‘gain.” Moreover, Smith believes in God, and goes to church, – what liberal German can stand this? – while Breitmann, being a publican, must be a sinner. As to parties, the principles of both are the same – plunder – and “any man who gifes me his fote, – votefer his boledics pe, – shall alfays pe regardet ash bolidigal friendt py me.”

This brings the house down. And when Breitmann announces that he sells the best beer in the city, and stands drinks gratis to his “bolidigal friendts,” and orders in twelve barrels of lager for the meeting, he is unanimously voted “a brickbat, and no sardine.”

After this brilliant success, the author is obliged to pause, in order to proclaim the intellectual superiority of Germans to the whole world. He gets tremendously be-fogged in the process, but that is no matter –

“Ash der Hegel say of his system,’ Dat only von mans knew Vot der tyfel id meant; and he couldn’t tell,’ und der Jean Paul Richter, too,
Who saidt, ‘Gott knows, I meant somedings vhen foorst dis buch I writ,
Boot Gott only weiss vot das buch means now, for I hafe forgotten it!'”

But, taking the point as proved, our German still allows that the Yankees have some sharp-pointed sense, which he illustrates by narrating how Hiram Twine turned a village of Smith-voters into the Breitmann camp. The village is German and Democrat. Smith has forgotten his meeting, and Twine, who is very like Smith, and rides into the village to watch the meeting, is taken by the Germans for Smith. On this, Twine resolves to personate Smith, and give his supporters a dose of him. Accordingly, on being asked to drink, he tells the Germans that none but hogs would drink their stinking beer, and that German wine was only made for German swine. Then he goes to the meeting, and, having wounded their feelings in the tenderest point, – the love of beer, – attacks the next tenderest, – their love for their language, – by declaring that he will vote for preventing the speaking of it all through the States; and winds up by exhorting them to stop guzzling beer and smoking pipes, and set to work to un-Germanise themselves as soon as possible. On this “dere coomed a shindy,” with cries of “Shoot him with a bowie-knife,” and “Tar and feather him.” A revolver-ball cuts the chandelier-cord; all is dark; and amidst the row, Twine escapes and gallops off, with some pistol-balls after him. But the village votes for Breitmann, and be “licks der Schmit.”

The ballad, “Breitmann’s Going to Church,” is based on a real occurrence. A certain colonel, with his men, did really, during the war, go to a church in or near Nashville, and, as the saying is, “kicked up the devil, and broke things,” to such an extent, that a serious reprimand from the colonel’s superior officer was the result. The fact is guaranteed by Mr. Leland, who heard the offender complain of the “cruel and heartless stretch of military authority.” As regards the firing into the guerilla ball-room, it took place near Murfreesboro’, on the night of Feb. 10 or 11, 1865; and on the next day, Mr. Leland was at a house where one of the wounded lay. On the same night a Federal picket was shot dead near Lavergne; and the next night a detachment of cavalry was sent off from General Van Cleve’s quarters, the officer in command coming in while the author was talking with the general, for final orders. They rode twenty miles that night, attacked a body of guerillas, captured a number, and brought back prisoners early next day. The same day Mr. Leland, with a small cavalry escort, and a few friends, went out into the country, during which ride one or two curious incidents occurred, illustrating the extraordinary fidelity of the blacks to Federal soldiers.

The explanation of the poem entitled, “The First Edition of Breitmann,” is as follows: – It was not long after the war that a friend of the writer’s to whom “the Breitmann Ballads” had been sent in MSS., and who had frequently urged the former to have them published, resolved to secure, at least, a small private edition, though at his own expense. Unfortunately the printers quarrelled about the MSS., and, as the writer understood, the entire concern broke up in a row in consequence. And, in fact, when we reflect on the amount of fierce attack and recrimination we reflect this unpretending and peaceful little volume elicited after the appearance of the fifth English edition, and the injury which it sustained from garbled and falsified editions, in not less than three unauthorised reprints, it would really seem as if this first edition, which “died a borning,” had been typical of the stormy path to which the work was predestined.

“I Gili Romaneskro,” a gipsy ballad, was written both in the original and translation – that is to say, in the German gipsy and German English dialects – to cast a new light on the many-sided Bohemianism of Herr Breitmann.

The readers of more than one English newspaper will recall that the idea of representing Breitmann as an Uhlan, scouting over France, and frequently laying houses and even cities under heavy contribution, has occurred to very many of “Our Own.” A spirited correspondent of the Telegraph, and others of literary fame, have familiarly referred to the Uhlan as Breitmann, indicating that the German-American free-lance has grown into a type; and more than one newspaper, anticipating this volume, has published Anglo-German poems referring to Hans Breitmann and the Prussian-French war. In several pamphlets written in Anglo-German rhymes, which appeared in London in 1871, Breitmann was made the representative type of the war by both the friends and opponents of Prussia, while during February of the same year Hans figured at the same time, and on the same evenings for several weeks, on the stages of three London theatres. So many imitations of these poems were published, and so extensively and familiarly was Mr. Leland’s hero spoken of as the exponent of the German cause, that it seemed to a writer at the time as if he had become “as regards Germany what John Bull and Brother Jonathan have long been to England and America.” In connection with this remark, the following extract from a letter of the Special Correspondent of the London Daily Telegraph of August 29, 1870, may not be without interest: –

“The Prussian Uhlan of 1870 seems destined to fill in French legendary chronicle the place which, during the invasions of 1814 – 15, was occupied by the Cossack. He is a great traveller. Nancy, Bar-le-Duc, Commercy, Rheims, Chalons, St. Dizier, Chaumont, have all heard of him. The Uhlan makes himself quite at home, and drops in, entirely in a friendly way, on mayors and corporations, asking not only himself to dinner, but an indefinite number of additional Uhlans, who, he says, may be expected hourly. The Uhlan wears a blue uniform turned up with yellow, and to the end of his lance is affixed a streamer intimately resembling a very dirty white pocket-handkerchief. Sometimes he hunts in couples, sometimes he goes in threes, and sometimes in fives. When he lights upon a village, he holds it to ransom; when he comes upon a city, he captures it, making it literally the prisoner of his bow and his spear. A writer in Blackwood’s Magazine once drove the people of Lancashire to madness by declaring that, in the Rebellion of 1745, Manchester ‘was taken by a Scots sergeant and a wench;’ but it is a notorious fact that Nancy submitted without a murmur to five Uhlans, and that Bar-le-Duc was occupied by two. When the Uhlan arrives in a conquered city, he visits the mayor, and makes his usual inordinate demands for meat, drink, and cigars. If his demands are acceded to, he accepts everything with a grin. If he is refused, he remarks, likewise with a grin, that he will come again to-morrow with three thousand light horsemen, and he gallops away; but in many cases he does not return. The secret of the fellow’s success lies mainly in his unblushing impudence, his easy mendacity, and that intimate knowledge of every highway and byway of the country which, thanks to the military organisation of the Prussian army, he has acquired in the regimental school. He gives himself out to be the precursor of an imminently advancing army, when, after all, he is only a boldly adventurous free-lance, who has ridden thirty miles across country on the chance of picking up something in the way of information or victuals. Only one more touch is needed to complete the portrait of the Uhlan. His veritable name would seem to be Hans Breitmann, and his vocation that of a ‘bummer;’ and Breitmann, we learn from the preface to Mr. Leland’s wonderful ballad, had a prototype in a regiment of Pennsylvanian cavalry by the name of Jost, whose proficiency in ‘bumming,’ otherwise ‘looting,’ in swearing, fighting, and drinking lager beer, raised him to a pitch of glory on the Federal side which excited at once the envy and the admiration of the boldest bush-whackers and the gauntest guerillas in the Confederate host.”

The present edition embraces all the Breitmann poems which have as yet appeared; and the publisher trusts that in their collected form they will be found much more attractive than in scattered volumes. Many new lyrics, illustrating the hero’s travels in Europe, have been added, and these, it is believed, are not inferior to their predecessors.


The Breitmann Ballads.



HANS BREITMANN gife a barty;
Dey had biano-blayin’,
I felled in lofe mit a Merican frau, Her name vas Madilda Yane.
She hat haar as prown ash a pretzel, Her eyes vas himmel-plue,
Und vhen dey looket indo mine,
Dey shplit mine heart in dwo.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty,
I vent dere you’ll pe pound;
I valtzet mit Matilda Yane,
Und vent shpinnen’ round und round. De pootiest Fraulein in de house,
She vayed ‘pout dwo hoondred pound, Und efery dime she gife a shoomp
She make de vindows sound.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty,
I dells you it cost him dear;
Dey rolled in more ash sefen kecks
Of foost-rate lager beer.
Und vhenefer dey knocks de shpicket in De deutschers gifes a cheer;
I dinks dot so vine a barty
Nefer coom to a het dis year.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty;
Dere all vas Souse and Brouse,
Vhen de sooper comed in, de gompany Did make demselfs to house;
Dey ate das Brot and Gensy broost,
De Bratwurst and Braten vine,
Und vash der Abendessen down
Mit four parrels of Neckarwein.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty;
Ve all cot troonk ash bigs.
I poot mine mout’ to a parrel of beer, Und emptied it oop mit a schwigs;
Und den I gissed Madilda Yane,
Und she shlog me on de kop,
Und de gompany vighted mit daple-lecks Dill de coonshtable made oos shtop.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty —
Vhere ish dot barty now?
Vhere ish de lofely golden cloud
Dot float on de moundain’s prow?
Vhere ish de himmelstrahlende stern — De shtar of de shpirit’s light?
All goned afay mit de lager beer — Afay in de ewigkeit!


HANS BREITMANN shoined de Turners,
Novemper in de fall,
Und dey gifed a boostin’ bender
All in de Turner Hall.
Dere coomed de whole Gesangverein
Mit der Liederlich Aepfel Chor,[1] Und dey blowed on de drooms and stroomed on de fifes Till dey couldn’t refife no more.

Hans Breitmann shoined de Turners,
Dey all set oop some shouts,
Dey took’d him into deir Turner Hall, Und poots him a course of shprouts.
Dey poots him on de barell-hell pars Und shtands him oop on his head,
Und dey poomps de beer mit an enchine hose In his mout’ dill he’s ‘pout half tead!

Hans Breitmann shoined de Turners;
Dey make shimnastig dricks;
He stoot on de middle of de floor,
Und put oop a fifdy-six.
Und den he drows it to de roof,
Und schwig off a treadful trink:
De veight coom toomple back on his headt, Und py shinks! he didn’t vink!

Hans Breitmann shoined de Turners:–
Mein Gott! how dey drinked und shwore; Dere vas Schwabians und Tyrolers,
Und Bavarians by de score.
Some vellers coomed from de Rheinland, Und Frankfort-on-de-Main,
Boot dere vas only von Sharman dere, Und he vas a Holstein Dane.

Hans Breitmann shoined de Turners,
Mit a Limpurg’ cheese he coom;
Vhen he open de box it schmell so loudt It knock de musik doomb.
Vhen de Deutschers kit de flavour,
It coorl de haar on deir head;
Boot dere vas dwo Amerigans dere;
Und, py tam! it kilt dem dead!

Hans Breitmann shoined de Turners;
De ladies coomed in to see;
Dey poot dem in de blace for de gals, All in der gal-lerie.
Dey ashk: “Vhere ish der Breitmann?” Und dey dremple mit awe and fear
Vhen dey see him schwingen’ py de toes, A trinken’ lager beer.

Hans Breitmann shoined de Turners:
I dells you vot py tam!
Dey sings de great Urbummellied:[2] De holy Sharman psalm.
Und vhen de kits to de gorus
You ought to hear dem dramp!
It scared der Teufel down below
To hear de Dootchmen stamp.

Hans Breitmann shoined de Turners:–
By Donner! it vas grand,
Vhen de whole of dem goes valkin
Und dancin’ on deir hand,
Mit deir veet all vavin’ in de air, Gottstausend! vot a dricks!
Dill der Breitmann fall und dey all go down Shoost like a row of bricks.

Hans Breitmann shoined de Turners,
Dey lay dere in a heap,
And slept dill de early sonnen shine Come in at de vindow creep;
And de preeze it vake dem from deir dream, And dey go to kit deir feed:
Here hat dis song an ende —



Der noble Ritter Hugo
Von Schwillensaufenstein,
Rode out mit shper and helmet,
Und he coom to de panks of de Rhine.

Und oop dere rose a meermaid,
Vot hadn’t got nodings on,
Und she say, “Oh, Ritter Hugo,
Vhere you goes mit yourself alone?”

And he says, “I rides in de creenwood, Mit helmet und mit shpeer,
Til I coomes into em Gasthaus,
Und dere I trinks some beer.”

Und den outshpoke de maiden
Vot hadn’t got nodings on:
“I don’t dink mooch of beoplesh
Dat goes mit demselfs alone.

“You’d petter coom down in de wasser, Vhere dere’s heaps of dings to see,
Und hafe a shplendid tinner
Und drafel along mit me.

“Dere you sees de fisch a schwimmin’, Und you catches dem efery von:”–
So sang dis wasser maiden
Vot hadn’t got nodings on.

“Dere ish drunks all full mit money
In ships dat vent down of old;
Und you helpsh yourself, by dunder! To shimmerin’ crowns of gold.

“Shoost look at dese shpoons und vatches! Shoost see dese diamant rings!
Coom down and fill your bockets,
Und I’ll giss you like efery dings.

“Vot you vantsh mit your schnapps und lager? Coom down into der Rhine!
Der ish pottles der Kaiser Charlemagne Vonce filled mit gold-red wine!”

Dat fetched him – he shtood all shpell pound; She pooled his coat-tails down,
She drawed him oonder der wasser,
De maiden mit nodings on.


De moon shines ofer de cloudlens,
Und de cloudts plow ofer de sea,
Und I vent to Coney Island,
Und I took mein Schatz mit me.
Mein Schatz, Katrina Bauer,
I gife her mein heart und vortdt; Boot ve tidn’t know vot beoples
De Dampfsschiff hafe cot on poard.

De preeze plowed cool und bleasant,
We looket at de town
Mit sonn-light on de shdeebles,
Und wetter fanes doornin’ round.
Ve sat on de deck in a gorner
Und dropled nopody dere,
Vhen all aroundt oos de rowdies
Peginned to plackguard und schvear.

A voman mit a papy
Vos sittin’ in de blace;
Von tooket a chew tobacco
Und trowed it indo her vace.
De voman got coonvulshons,
De papy pegin to gry;
Und de rowdies shkreemed out a laffin, Und saidt dat de fun was “high.”

Pimepy ve become some hoonger,
Katrina Bauer und I,
I openet de lit of mine pasket,
Und pringed out a cherry bie.
A cherry kooken mit pretzels,
“How goot!” Katrina said,
Vhen a rowdy snatched it from her,
Und preaked it ofer mine het.

I dells him he pe a plackguart,
I gifed him a biece my mind,
I vouldt saidt it pefore a tousand, Mit der teufel himself pehind.
Den he knocks me down mit a sloong-shot, Und peats me plack and plue;
Und de plackguards kick me,
Dill I vainted, und dat ish drue.

De rich American beoples
Don’t know how de rowdies shtrike Der poor hardtworkin’ Sharman,
He knows it more ash he like.
If de Deutsche speakers und bapers
Are somedimes too hard on dis land, Shoost dink how de Deutsch kit driven
Along by de rowdy’s hand!


DE picknock oud at Spraker’s Wood:-
It melt de soul und fire de plood.
Id sofly slid from cakes und cream; Boot busted oop on brandy shdeam.

Mit stims of tender graceful ring,
De gals begoon a song to sing;
A bland mildt lied of olden dime-
Deutsch vas die doon, und Deutsch de rhyme.

Wi’s uff der Stross’ wenn’s finschter ischt, Und niemond in der Goss’ mehr ischt,
Nur Schone Madel wolle mer fonga,
Wie es gebil’te Leut’ verlonga.

At de picknock oud in Spraker’s Wood, De Bier was soft-de gals were good:
Oondil von feller, vild and rasch,
Called out for a Yankee brandy-smash!

A crow vot vas valkin on de vall,
Fell dead ven he hear dis Dootchmann call; For he knew dat droples coom, py shinks! Ven de Dootch go in for Yankee drinks.

De Dootch got ravin droonk ash sin,
Dey smash de windows out und in;
Dey bust und bang de bar-room ein,
Und call for a bucket of branntewein.

Avay, avay, demselfs dey floong,
Und a wild infernal lied dey sung:
‘Tvas, “Tam de wein, and cuss de bier! Ve tont care nix for de demprance here!

“O keep a pringin juleps in,
Und baldface corn dat burn like sin; Mit apple tods und oldt shtone fence,
Ve’ll all get corned ere ve go hence!”

Dey dash deir glasses on de cround,
Und tanz dill’tvas all to brick-duss ground, Ven dey hear von man had a ten-dollar note, De crowd go dead for dat rich man’s troat.

A demperance chap vot coomed dere in, Vent squanderin out mit his shell burst in; “It’s walk your chalks, you loost your chance, Dis vot de call der Dootchmans’ dance.”

Boot ven de law, mit his myrmidon,
Vas hear of dese Dootchmen’s carryins-on, Dey sent bolicemen shtern und good,
To pull dose Dootch in Spraker’s Wood.

De Dootch vas all gone roarin mad,
Und trinked mit Spraker all dey had; Dey shpend ‘nuf money to last deir life, And each vas tantzin mit anoder man’s wife.

Dey all cot poonish difers vays,
Some vent to jug for dirty tays;
Und de von dat kilt de demperance man Vas kit from de Alderman repriman.

Und dus it ran:-“A warnin dake,
For you mighdt hafe mate soom pig mishdake; Now how vouldt you hafe feeled, py shing! If dat man hat peen in de whiskey ring?

“Since you votes mine dicket, of course you know, I’m pound to led you shlide und go.
Boot nefer on whiskey trink your fill, For you Dootchmen don’t know who to kill.”

Now Deutschers all-on dis warning dink, Und don’t get troonk on Yankee trink,
For neider you, or anoder man,
Can pe hocks like de New York rowdies can.

So trink goot bier, mit musik plest,
For if you tried your level best,
You can’t be plackguarts-taint in de plood: Dus endet de shdory of Spraker’s Wood.



Vhen der Herr Breitmann vas a yungling, he vas go bummin aroundt goot deal in de worldt, vestigatin human natur, roulant de vergne en vergne, ash de Fraentsch boet says: “goin from town to town;” seein beobles in gemixed sociedy, und learnin dose languages vitch ornamendt a drue moskopolite, or von whose kopf ish bemosst mit experience. Mong oder tongues, ash it would appeared, he shpoke fluendly, Red Welsh, Black Dootch, Kauder-Waelsch, Gaunersprache, und Shipsy; und dis latter languashe he pring so wide dat he write a pook of pallads in it,-von of vitch pallads I hafe intuce him mit moosh droples to telifer ofer to de worldt. De inclined reader vill, mit crate heavy-hood blace pefore himself de fexation und lapor I hafe hat in der Breitmann his absents, to ged dese Shipsy verses broperly gorrected; as de only shentleman in town who vas culpable of so doin, ish peen gonfined in de town-brison, pout some droples he hat for shdealin some hens; und pefore I couldt consoolt mit him, he vas rooned afay. Denn I fond an oldt vomans Shipsy, who vas do nodings boot peg, und so wider mit pout five or four oders more. Derfore, de errordoms moost pe excused py de enlightened pooplic, who are fomiliar mit dis peautiful languashe, vitch is now so shenerally fashionabel in laterary und shpordin circles.




Schunava, ke baschno del a godla,
Schunava Paschomaskro.
Te del miro Dewel tumen
Dschavena Bachtallo.[3]

Schunava opre to ruka
Chiriklo ke gillela:
Kamovela but dives,
Eh’me pale kamaveva.

Apo je wa’wer divesseste
Schunava pro gilaviben,
M’akana me avava,
Pro marzos, pro kuriben.

So korava kuribente,
So korava apre drom;
Me kanav miri romni,
So kamela la lakero rom.


I hear de gock a growin!
I hear de musikant!
Gott gife dee a happy shourney
Vhen you go to a distand landt.

I hears oopon de pranches
A pird mit merry shdrain,
Goot many tays moost fanish
Ere I coom to dis blace again.

Oopon some oder tay-times
I’ll hear dat song from dee;
Boot now I goes ash soldier
To war, o’er de rollin sea.

Und vot I shdeals in pattle,
Und vot on de road I shdeal,
I’ll pring all to my true lofe
Who lofes her lofer so well.



DER watchman look out from his tower
Ash de Abendgold glimmer grew dim, Und saw on de road troo de Gauer
Ten shpearmen coom ridin to him:
Und he schvear: “May I lose my next bitter, Und denn mit der Teufel go hang!
If id isn’t dat pully young Ritter, De hell-drivin Steinli von Slang.

“De vorldt nefer had any such man,
He vights like a sturm in its wrath: You may call me a recular Dutchman,
If he arn’t like Goliath of Gath. He ish big ash de shiant O’Brady,
More ash sefen feet high on a string, Boot he can’t vin de hearts of my lady,
De lofely Plectruda von Sling.”

De lady make welcome her gast in,
Ash he shtep to de dop of de shtair, She look like an angel got lost in
A forest of audumn-prown hair.
Und a bower-maiden said ash she tarried: “I wish I may bust mit a bang!
If id isn’t a shame she ain’t married To der her-re-liche Steinli von Slang!”

He pows to de cround fore de lady,
Vhile his vace ish ash pale ash de tead; Und she vhispers oonto him a rede
Ash mit arrow point accents, she said: “You hafe long dimes peen dryin to win me, You hafe vight, and mine braises you sing, Boot I’m ‘fraid dat de notion aint in me, De Lady Plectruda von Sling.

“Boot brafehood teserves a reward, sir; Dough you’ve hardly a chost of a shanse. Sankt Werolf! medinks id ish hard, sir,
I should allaweil lead you dis dance.” Like a bees vhen it it booz troo de clofer, Dese murmurin accents she flang,
Vhile singin, a stingin her lofer,
Der woe-moody Ritter von Slang.

“Boot if von ding you do, I’ll knock under, Our droples moost endin damit
Und if you pull troo it,- by donder! I’ll own myself euchred, und bit.
I schvear py de holy Sanct Chlody!
Py mine honor-und avery ding!
You may hafe me-soul, puttons und pody, Mit de whole of Plectruda von Sling.”

“Und dish ish de test of your power:- Vhile ve shtand ourselfs round in a row, You moost roll from de dop of dis tower, Down shdairs to de valley pelow.
Id ish rough and shteep ash my virtue:” (Mit schwanenshweet accents she sang:) “Tont try if you dinks id vill hurt you, Mine goot liddle Ritter von Slang.”

An Moormoor arosed mong de beoples;
In fain tid she doorn in her shkorn, Der vatchman on dop of de shdeeples
Plowed a sorryfool doon on his horn. Ash dey look down de dousand-foot treppe, Dey schveared dey vouldt pass on de ding, Und not roll down de firstest tam steppe For a hoondred like Fraulein von Sling.


‘Twas audumn. De dry leafs vere bustlin Und visperin deir elfin wild talk,
Vhen shlow, mit his veet in dem rustlin, Herr Steinli coomed out for a walk.
Wild dooks vly afar in de gloamin,
He hear a vaint gry vrom de gang; Und vished he vere off mit dem roamin:
De heart-wounded Ritter Von Slang.

Und ash he vent musin und shbeakin,
He se, shoost ahead in his vay,
In sinkular manner a streakin,
A strange liddle bein, in cray,
Who toorned on him quick mit a holler, Und cuttin a dwo bigeon ving,
Cried, “Say, can you change me a thaler, Oh, guest of de Lady von Sling?”

De knight vas a goot-nadured veller,
(De peggars all knowed him at sight,) So he forked out each groschen und heller, Dill he fix de finances aright.
Boot shoost ash de liddle man vent, he, (Der Ritter,) ashtonished cried “Dang!” For id vasn’t von thaler boot tventy,
He’d passed on der Ritter von Slang.

O reater! Soopose soosh a vlight in
De vingers of me, or of you,
How we’d toorned on our heels, und gon kitin Dill no von vos left to pursue!
Good Lort! how we’d froze to de ready! Boot mit him ‘dvas a different ding;
For he vent on de high, moral steady, Dis lofer of Fraulein von Sling.

Und dough no von vill gife any gredit To dis part of mine dale, shdill id’s drue, He drafelled ash if he vould dead it,
Dis liddle oldt man to pursue.
Und loudly he after him hollers,
Till de vales mit de cliffers loud rang: “You hafe gifed me nine-ten too moosh dollars, Hold Hard!” cried der Ritter von Slang.

De oldt man ope his eyes like a casement, Und laid a cold hand on his prow,
Denn mutter in ootmosdt amazement,
“Vot manner of mordal art dou?
I hafe lifed in dis world a yar tausend, Und nefer yed met soosh a ding!
Yet you find it hart vork to pe spouse, and Peloved by de Lady von Sling!

“Und she vant you to roll from de tower Down shteps to yon rifulet spot.”
(Here de knight, whom amazement o’erbower, Cried, “Himmels potz pumpen Herr Gott!”) Boot de oldt veller saidt: “I’ll arrange it, Let your droples und sorrows co hang!
Und nodings vill coom to derange it- Pet high on it, Ritter von Slang.

“So get oop dis small oonderstandin,
Dat to-morrow by ten, do you hear? You’ll pe mit your trunk at de landin;
I’ll also be dere-nefer fear!
Und I dinks we shall make your young voman A new kind of meloty sing;
Dat vain, wicked, cruel, unhuman,
Gott-tamnaple Fraulein von Sling.”

De fiolet shdars vere apofe him,
Vhite moths und vhite dofes shimmered round, All nature seemed seekin to lofe him,
Mit perfume und vision und sound. De liddle oldt veller hat fanished,
In a harp-like, melotious twang;
Und mit him all sorrow vas panished Afay from der Steinli von Slang.


Id vas morn, und de vorldt hat assempled Mid panners und lances und dust,
Boot de heart of de Paroness trempled, Und ofden her folly she cussed.
For she found dat der Ritter vould do it, Und “die or get into de Ring,”
Und denn she’d pe cerdain to rue it, Aldough she vas Lady von Sling.

For no man in Deutschland stood higher Dan he mit de Minnesing crew,
He vas friendet to Heini von Steier, Und Wolfram von Eschenbach too.
Und she dinked ash she look from de vinders, How herzlich his braises dey sang;
“Now dey’ll knock my goot name indo flinders, For killin der Ritter von Slang.”

Boot oh! der goot knight had a Schauer, Und felt most ongommonly queer,
Vhen he find on de top of de dower
De goblum, pesite him, abbear.
Denn he find he no more could go valkin, Und shtood, shoost and potrified ding, Vhile de goblum vent round about talkin, Und chaffin Plectruda von Sling.

Denn at vonce he see indo de problum, Und vas stoggered like rats at ids vim: His soul had gone indo de goblum,
Und de goblum’s hat gone indo him. Und de eyes of de volk vas enchanted,
Dere vas “glamour” oopon de whole gang; For dey dinked dat dis veller who ranted So loose, vas der Ritter von Slang.

Und, Lordt! how he dalked! Oonder heafens Dere vas nefer soosh derriple witz,
Knockin all dings to sechses and sefens, Und gifin Plectruda, Dutch fits.
Mein Gott! how he poonished und chaffed her Like a hell-stingin, devil-born ding;
Vhile de volk lay a-rollin mit laughter At Fraulein Plectruda von Sling.

De lady grew angry und paler,
De lady grew ratful und red,
She felt some Satanical jailer
Hafe brisoned de tongue in her head. She moost laugh vhen she vant to pe cryin, Und vas crushed mit de teufelisch clang, Till she knelt herself, pooty near dyin, To dis derriple image of Slang.

Denn der goblum shoomp oop to der ceiling Und trow sommerseds round on de vloor, Right ofer Plectruda a-kneelin,
Dill she look more a vool dan pefore. Denn he roll down de shteps light und breezy, His laughs made it all apout ring;
Ash he shveared dere vas noding more easy Dan to win a Plectruda von Sling.

Und vhen he cot down to de pottom,
He laugh so to freezen your plood; Und schwear dat de boomps ash he cot em
Hafe make him feel petter ash good. Boot, oh! how dey shook at his power,
Vhen he toorned himself roundt mit a bang, Und roll oop to de dop of de tower,
To change forms mit de oder Von Slang!

Denn all in an insdand vas altered,
Der Steinli vas coom to himself;
Und de sprite, vitch in double sense paltered, From dat moment acain vas an elf.
Dey shdill dinked dat he vas de person Who had bobbed oop and down on de ving, Und knew not who ‘tvas lay de curse on
De peaudiful Lady von Sling.

Nun-endlich- Plectruda repented,
Und gazed on der Ritter mit shoy; In dime to pe married consented,
Und vas plessed mit a peautifool poy. A dwenty gold biece on his bosom
Vhen geporn vas tiscofered to hang Mit de inscript-“Dis dime dont refuse em”- So endet de tale of Von Slang.

Dresden, 1870.


Si liceret te amare
Ad Suevorum magnum mare
Sponsam te perducerem
– Tristicia Amorosa.
Frau Aventiure,
von J. V. Scheffel.

VILL’ST dou learn die Deutsche Sprache? Denn set it on your card,
Dat all the nouns have shenders,
Und de shenders all are hard.
Dere ish also dings called pronoms, Vitch id’s shoost ash vell to know;
Boot ach! de verbs or time-words-
Dey’ll work you bitter woe.

Will’st dou learn de Deutsche Sprche? Den you allatag moost go
To sinfonies, sonatas,
Or an oratorio.
Vhen you dinks you knows ‘pout musik, More ash any other man,
Be sure de soul of Deutschland
Into your soul ish ran.

Will’st dou learn de Deutsche Sprache? Dou moost eat apout a peck
A week of stinging sauerkraut,[4]
Und sefen pfoundts of speck.
Mit Gott knows vot in vinegar,
Und deuce knows vot in rum:
Dis ish de only cerdain vay
To make de accents coom.

Will’st dou learn de Deutsche Sprache? Brepare dein soul to shtand
Soosh sendences ash ne’er vas heardt In any oder land.
Till dou canst make parentheses
Intwisted-ohne zahl-
Dann wirst du erst Deutschfertig seyn,[5] For a languashe ideal.

Will’st dou learn de Deutsche Sprache? Du must mitout an fear
Trink afery tay an gallon dry,
Of foamin Sherman bier.
Und de more you trinks, pe certain, More Deutsch you’ll surely pe;
For Gambrinus ish de Emperor
Of de whole of Germany.

Will’st dou learn de Deutsche Sprache? Be sholly, brav, und treu,
For dat veller ish kein Deutscher
Who ish not a sholly poy.
Find out vot means Gemutlichkeit,
Und do it mitout fail,
In Sang und Klang dein Lebenlang,[6] A brick-ganz kreuzfidel.

Willst dou learn de Deutsche Sprache? If a shendleman dou art,
Denn shtrike right indo Deutschland, Und get a schveetes heart.
From Schwabenland or Sachsen
Vhere now dis writer pees;
Und de bretty girls all wachsen
Shoost like aepples on de drees.

Boot if dou bee’st a laty,
Denn on de oder hand,
Take a blonde moustachioed lofer
In de vine green Sherman land.
Und if you shoost kit married
(Vood mit vood soon makes a vire), You’ll learn to sprechen Deutsch mein kind, Ash fast ash you tesire.

Dresden, January 1870.


Vulnerasti cor meum, soror mea sponsa.

O VERE mine lofe a sugar-powl,
De fery shmallest loomp
Vouldt shveet de seas, from pole to pole, Und make de shildren shoomp.
Und if she vere a clofer-field,
I’d bet my only pence,
It vouldn’t pe no dime at all
Pefore I’d shoomp de fence.

Her heafenly foice, it drill me so,
It oft-dimes seems to hoort,
She ish de holiest anamile
Dat roons oopon de dirt.
De renpow rises vhen she sings,
De sonnshine vhen she dalk;
De angels crow und flop deir vings
Vhen she goes out to valk.

So livin white, so carnadine,
Mine lofe’s gomblexion show;
It’s shoost like Abendcarmosine,
Rich gleamin on de shnow.
Her soul makes plushes in her sheek Ash sommer reds de wein,
Or sonnlight sends a fire life troo An blank Karfunkelstein.

De uberschwengliche idees
Dis lofe poot in my mind,
Vouldt make a foost-rate philosoph
Of any human kind.
‘Tis schudderin schveet on eart to meet An himmlisch-hoellisch Qual;
Und treat mitwhiles to Kummel Schnapps De schoenheitsideal.

Dein Fuss seind weiss wie Kreiden,
Dein Ermlein Helfenbein,
Dein ganzer Leib ist Seiden
Dein Brust wie Marmelstein-
Ja-vot de older boet sang,
I sing of dee-dou Fine!
Dou’rt soul und pody, heart und life Glatt, zart, gelind, und rein.[7]


AIR – “Der Pabst lebt,” &c.

WIE gehts, my frendts-if you’ll allow- I sings you rite afay shoost now
Some dretful shdories vitch dey calls Der Freyschutz, or de Magic Balls.

Wohl in Bohemian land it cooms,
Vhere folk trink prandy mate of plooms;[8] Dere lifed ein Yaeger-Maxerl Schmit-
Who shot mit goons und nefer hit.

Now dere vas von oldt Yaeger, who
Says, “Maxerl, dis vill nefer do;
If you shouldt miss on drial-tay,
Dere’ll pe der tyfel denn to bay.

“If you do miss, you shtupid coose,
Dere’ll pe de donnerwetter loose;
For you shant hafe mine taughter’s hand, Nor pe der Hertzhog’s yaegersmann.”

Id coomed pefore de tay vas set,
Dat all de shaps togeder met;
Und Max he fired his goon und missed, Und all de gals cot roundt und hissed.

Dey laughed pefore und hissed pehind; Boot von shap-Kaspar-saidt, “Ton’t mind; I dells you vot-you stoons ’em alls
If yoost you shoodt mit magic balls.”

“De magic balls! oh, vot is dat?”
“I cot soom in my hoontin’ hat;
Dey’re plack as kohl, und shoodt so drue: Oh, dem’s de kindt of balls for you.

“You see dat eagle vlyin’ high,
Ein hoondred miles oop in de sky;
Shoot at dat eagle mit your bix,
You kills hin tead ash doonderblix!”

“I ton’t pelieve de dings you say.”
“You fool,” says Kasp, “denn plaze afay!” He plazed afay, vhen, sure as plood,
Down coom de eagle in de mud.

“O was ist das?” said Maxerl Schmit:
“Vhy! dat’s de eagle vot you hit.
You kills him vhen you plaze afay;
Boot dat’s a ding you nix verstay.

“Und you moost go to make dem balls
To de Wolf’s Glen vhen mitnight valls. Dow know’st de shpot-alone und late”-
“Oh ja-I know shim ganz foost-rate!

“Boot denn I does not like to co
Among dem dings.” Says Kasp, “Ach, ‘sho! I’ll help you fix dem tyfel chaps,
Like a goot veller-dake some schnapps!”

(“Hilf Zamiel! hilf”)-“Here, dake some more!’ Denn Kasp vent shtompin’ roundt de vloor, Und coomed his hoompugs ofer Schmit,
Dill Max saidt, “Nun-ich gehe mit!”

All in de finster mitternocht,
Vhen oder folk in shleep vas lockt, Down in de Wolfschlucht, Kasp tid dry
His tyfel-strikes und Hexery.

Mit skools und pones he mate a ring,
De howls und shpooks pegin to sing, Und all the tyfels oonder croundt
Coom preakin’ loose und rooshin’ roundt.

Denn Maxerl cooms along: says he,
“Mein Gott! vot dings ish dis I see! I dinks de fery tyfel und all
Moost help to make dem magic ball.

“I vish dat I had nix cum raus,
Und shtaid mineself in bett to house.” “Hilf Zamiel!” cried Kasp; “you whelp-
You red Dootch tyfel-coom und help!”

Den oop dere coomed a tredfull shdorm, De todtengrips aroundt tid schvarm;
De howl shoomped oop und flopt his vings Und toorned his het like avery dings.

Oop droo de croundt dere coomed a pot Mit leadt, und dings to make de shot;
Und hoellisch fire in grimson plaze, Und awful schmells like Schweitzer kase.

Agross de scene a pine-shtick flew
Mit seferal shail-pirds vastened to; Six treadtful shail-pirds mit deir vings Tied to de shticks mit magic shtrings.

All droo de air, all in a row,
Die wilde Jagd vas seen to go;
De hounds und teer all mate of pone, Und hoonted py a skilleton.

Dere coomed a tredful shpecdre pig,
Who, shpitten’ fire afay, tid dig;
Und fiery drocks und tyfel-shnake
A scootin’ droo de air tid preak.

Boot Kaspar tidn’t mindt dem alls,
But casted out de pullet balls;
Six vas to go ash he vouldt like,
De sevent’ moost for de tyfel shtrike.

Ad last, oopon de drial tay,
De gals cot roundt so nice und gay, Und den dey goed und maked a tantz,
Und singed apout de Jungfernkranz.

Und denn der Hertshog-dat’s der Duke- Cooms doun und dinks he’ll dake a look;
“Young mans,” to Maxerl denn saidt he, “Shoost shoot dem dove oopon dat dree!”

Denn Maxerl pointed mit de bix,
“Potzblitz!” says he, “dat dove I’ll fix!” He fired his rifle at de Taub’,
When Kass rollt ofer in de Staub.

De pride she falled too in de doost,
Dey gals dey cried, de men dey got coossed: Der Hertshog says, “Id’s fery glear
Dat dere has peen some tyfels here!

“Und Max has shot mit tyfels-blei!
Pfui!-die verfluchte Hexerei!
O Maximilian! O Du
Gehst nit mit rechten Dingen zu!”

Boot denn a hermits coomed in late;
Says he, “I’ll fix dese dings foostrate;” Und telled der Hertshog dat yung men
Vill raise der Tyfel now und denn.

De Duke forgifed de Kaspar dann,
Und mate of him a Yaegersmann,
Vhat shoodts mit bixen goon, und pfeil, Und talks apout de Waidmannsheil.

Und denn de pride she coomed to life, Und cot to pe de Maxerl’s vife;
Denn all de beoples gried “Hoorah!
Das ist recht brav! und hopsasa!”


Py dis dings may pe oondershtood
Dat vhat is pad works ofden goot:
Or, Maximilia maximilibus curantur-if you will.


I STOOMPLED oud ov a dafern,
Breauscht mit a gallon of wein,
Und I rooshed along de strassen,
Like a derriple Eberschwein.

Und like a lordly boar-pig,
I doomplet de soper folk;
Und I trowed a shtone droo a shdreed lamp, Und bot’ of de classes I proke.

Und a gal vent roonin’ bast me,
Like a vild coose on de vings,
Boot I gatch her for all her skreechin’, Und giss her like efery dings.

Und denn mit an board und a parell,
I blay de horse-viddle a biece,
Dill de neighbours shkreem “deat’!” und “murder!” Und holler aloudt “bolice!”

Und vhen der crim night waechter
Says all of dis foon moost shtop, I oop mit mein oomberella,
Und schlog him ober de kop.

I leaf him like tead on de bavemend,
Und roosh droo a darklin’ lane,
Dill moonlighd und tisdand musik,
Pring me roundt to my soul again.

Und I sits all oonder de linden,
De hearts-leaf linden dree;
Und I dink of de quick gevanisht lofe Dat vent like de vind from me.
Und I voonders in mine dipsyhood,
If a damsel or dream vas she!

Dis life is all a lindens
Mit holes dat show de plue,
Und pedween de finite pranches
Cooms Himmel-light shinin’ troo.

De blaetter are raushlin’ o’er me,
Und efery leaf ish a fay,
Und dey vait dill de windsbraut comet, To pear dem in Fall afay.

Denn I coomed to a rock py der rifer, Vhere a stein ish of harpe form,
-Jahrdausand in, oud, it standet’-
Und nopody blays but de shtorm.

Here, vonce on a dimes, a vitches,
Soom melodies here peginned,
De harpe ward all zu steine,
Die melodie ward zu wind.

Und so mit dis tox-i-gation,
Vitch hardens de outer Me;
Ueber stein and schwein, de weine
Shdill harps oud a melodie.

Boot deeper de Ur-lied ringet’,
Ober stein und wein und svines,
Dill it endeth vhere all peginnet,
Und alles wird ewig zu eins,
In de dipsy, treamless sloomper
Vhich units de Nichts und Seyns.

Und im Mondenlicht it moormoors,
Und it burns by waken wein,
In Madchenlieb or Schnapsenrausch
Das Absolut ist dein.


Die Speer die er thut fuhren
die ist sehr gross und lang,
Das sollt du glauben mire,
gemacht von Vogelsgang.
Sein Ross das ist die Heide,
das sollt du glauben mir,
Darauf er nun thut reiten,
fuhrwahr das sag ich dir.
– Ein schon nerr Lied von dem Mai Und von dem Herbst. 16th century.



HERR SCHNITZERL make a ph’losopede,
Von of de pullyest kind;
It vent mitout a vheel in front,
And hadn’t none pehind.
Von vheel vas in de mittel, dough,
And it vent as sure ash ecks,
For he shtraddled on de axel dree,
Mit der vheel petween his lecks.

Und vhen he vant to shtart it off
He paddlet mit his feet,
Und soon he cot to go so vast
Dat efery dings he peat.
He run her out on Broader shtreed,
He shkeeted like der vind,
Hei! how he bassed de vancy crabs,
And lef dem all pehind!

De vellers mit de trottin nags
Pooled oop to see him bass;
De Deutschers all erstaunished saidt: “Potztausend! Was ist das?”
Boot vaster shtill der Schnitzerl flewed On – mit a ghastly shmile;
He tidn’t tooch de dirt, py shings! Not vonce in half a mile.

Oh, vot ish all dis eart’ly pliss?
Oh, vot ish man’s soocksess?
Oh, vot ish various kinds of dings? Und vot ish hobbiness?
Ve find a pank node in de shtreedt, Next dings der pank ish preak!
Ve folls, and knocks our outsides in, Vhen ve a ten shtrike make.

So vas it mit der Schnitzerlein
On his philosopede.
His feet both shlipped outsidevard shoost Vhen at his exdra shpeed.
He felled oopon der vheel of coorse; De vheel like blitzen flew!
Und Schnitzerl he vos schnitz in vact, For it shlished him grod in two.

Und as for his philosopede,
Id cot so shkared, men say,
It pounded onward till it vent
Ganz tyfelwards afay.
Boot vhere ish now der Schnitzerl’s soul? Vhere dos his shbirit pide?
In Himmel droo de endless plue,
It takes a medeor ride.



Vhen Breitmann hear dat Schnitzerl
Vas quardered into dwo,
Und how his crate philosopede
To ‘m tyfel had peen flew,
He dinked und dinked so heafy,
Ash only Deutschers can,
Denn saidt, “Who mighdt peliefet
Dish is de ent of man?”

“De human souls of beoples
Exisdt in deir idees,
Und dis of Wolfram Schnitzerl
Mighdt drafel many vays.
In his Bestimmung des Menschen
Der Fichte makes pelieve,
Dat ve brogress oon-endtly
In vhat pehindt ve leave.

“De shparrow falls ground-downvarts
Or drafels to de West;
De shparrows dat coom afder,
Bild shoost de same old nest.
Man had not vings or fedders,
Und in oder dings, ’tis set,
He tont coom up to shparrows,
But on nests he goes ahet.

“O! vliest dou droo bornin’ vorldts,
Und nebuloser foam,
By monsdrous mitnight shiant forms, Or vhere red tyfels roam;
Or vhere de ghosdts of shky-rockets Peyond creation flee?
Vhere e’er dou art, O Schnitzerlein, Crate Saindt! Look down on me!

“Und deach me how you maket
Dat crate philosopede,
Vhich roon dwice six mals vaster
Ash any Arap shteed.
Und deach me how to ‘stonish volk,
Und knock dem oud de shpots.
Coom pack to eart’, O Schnitzerlein, Und pring id down to dots!”

Shoost ash dish vordt vent outvarts,
Hans dinked he saw a vlash,
Und oonterwards de dable
He doompelt mit a crash.
Und to him, moong de glasses,
Und pottles ash vas proke,
Mit his het in a cigar-box,
A foice from Himmel shpoke:

“Adsum, Domine Breitmann!
Herr Copitain, here I pe!
So dell me rite honeste,
Quare inquietasti me?
Te video inter spoonibus,
Et largis glassis too,
Cerevisia repletis,
Sicut percussus tonitru!”

Denn Breitmann ansver Schnitzerl;
“Coarctor nimis, see!
Siquidem Philistiim
Pugnant adversum me.
Ergo vocavi te,
Ash Saul vocavit Sam-
Uel, ut mi ostenderes
Quid teufel faciam?”

Denn de shpirit (in Lateinisch)
Saidt “Bene, dat’s de talk,
Non habes in hoc shanty,
A shingle et some chalk?
Non video inkum nec calamos
(I shpose some bummer shdole ’em), Levate oculos tuos, son,
Et aspice ad linteolum!”

Denn Breitmann see de biece of chalk
Vhich riset vrom de vloor,
Und signed a fine philosopede
Alone, oopon de toor.
De von dat Schnitzerl fobricate,
Und oonderneat’ he see:
Probate inter equites,
(Try dis in de cavallrie).

Der Breitmann shtood oop from de vloor, Und leanet on a post;
Und saidt: “If dis couldt, shouldt hafe peen, Dar vouldt, mighdt peen a ghosdt;
Boot if id pe noumenon,
Phenomenoned indeed,
Or de soobyectif obyectified,
I’fe cot de philosopede.”

Denn out he seekt a plackschmit,
Ash vork in iron-steel,
To make him a philosopede
Mit shoost an only vheel.
De dings vas maket simple,
Ash all crate idees shouldt pe,
For ‘tvas noding boot a gart-vheel, Mit a dwo-feet axel dree.

De dimes der Breitmann doomple,
In learnin’ for to ride,
Vas ofdener ash de sand-crains
Dat rollen in de tide.
De dimes he cot oopsettet,
In shdeerin’ left und righdt,
Vas ofdener ash de cleamin’ shdars, Dat shtud de shky py night.

Boot de vorstest of de veadures
In dis von-vheel horse, you pet,
Ish dat man couldt go so nicely,
Pefore he get oopset.
Some dimes he co like plazes,
Und doorn her, extra-fine;
Und denn shlop ofer – dis is vot
Hafe kill der Schnitzerlein.

Soosh droples ash der Breitmann hafe, To make dis ‘vention go,
Vas nefer seen py mordal man,
Oopon dis vorldt pelow.
He doomplet righdt – he doomplet left, He hafe a dousand doomps;
Dere nefer vas a gricket ball
Ash get soosh ‘fernal boomps.

Boot – ash he’d shvearet he’d poot it droo, He shvear’t it moost pe tone;
Dough he schimpft’ und flucht’ gar laesterlich, He visht he’t ne’er pegun.
Mit “Hagel! Blitz! Kreuz-sakrament!” He maket de Houser ring,
Und vish der Schnitzerl vas in hell, For deachin’ him dis ding.

Nun – goot! At lasht he cot it,
Und peautifool he goed,
“Dis day,” saidt he, “I’ll ‘stonish folk A ridin’ in de road.
Dis day, py shings! I’ll do it,
Und knock dings oud of sight:”-
Ach weh! – for Breitmann dat day
Vas not be-markt mit vhite.

De noombers of de Deutsche volk,
Dat coomed dis sighdt to see,
I dink, in soper earnst-hood,
Mighdt not ge-reckonet pe.
For miles dey shtoodt along de road, Mein Gott! – boot dey wer’n dry;
Dey trinket den lager-bier shops out, Pefore der Hans coom py.

Vhen all at vonce drementous gries
De fery coondry shook,
Und beople’s shkreemt, “Da ist er! – Schau! Here cooms der Breitmann, look!”
Mein Gott! vas efer soosh a sighdt! Vas efer soosh a gry!
Vhen like a brick-pat in a vighdt,
Der Breitemann roosh py?

Oh mordal man! Vhy ish idt, dou
Hast passion to go vast?
Vhy ish id dat te tog und horse
Likes shbeed too quick to lasht?
De pugs, de pirds, de pumple-pees,
Und all dat ish, ‘tvouldt seem
Ish nefer hobby boot, exsepdt,
Vhen pilin’ on de shdeam.

Der Breitmann flew! Von mighdy gry
Ash he vent scootin’ bast;
Von derriple, drementous yell;-
Dat day de virst – und lasht.
Vot ha! Vot ho! Vhy ish it dus?
Vhot makes dem shdare aghasht?
Vhy cooms dat vail of vild deshbair? Ish somedings cot ge-shmasht?

Yea, efen so. Yea, ferily,
Shbeak, soul!-it ish dy biz!
Der Breitmann shkeet so vast along
Dey fairly heard him whizz.
Vhen shoost oopon a hill-top point
It caught a pranch ge-bent,
Und like an apple from a shling,
Afay Hans Breitmann vent.

Vent droo de air an hoondert feet
Allowin’ more or lees:-
Denn, pob-pob-pob – a mile or dwo
He rollet along – I guess.
Say – hast dou seen a gannon ball
Half shpent, shtill poundin’ on,
Like made of gummi-lasticum?-
So vent der Breitmann.

Dey bick him oop – dey pring him in,
No wort der Breitmann shboke.
Der doktor look – he shwear erstaunt Dat nodings ish peen proke.
“He rollt de rocky road entlang,
He pounce o’er shtock und shtone, You’d dink he’d knocked his outsites in, Yet nefer preak a pone!”

All shtill Hans lay, bevilderfied;
He seemt not mind de shaps,
Nor mofed oontil der medicus
Hafe dose him vell mit schnapps.
De schmell voke oop de boetry
Of tays vhen he vas yoong,
Und he murmulte de fragmends
Of an sad romantish song:

“Ash sommer pring de roses
Und roses pring de dew,
So Deutschland gifes de maidens
Who fetch de bier for you.
Komm Maidelein! rothe Waengelein!
Mit wein-glass in your paw!
Ve’ll get troonk among de roses,
Und pe soper on de shtraw!

“Ash vinter pring de ice-wind
Vitch plow o’er Burg und hill,
Hard times pring in de landlord,
Und de landlord pring the pill.
Boot sing Maidelein – rothe Waengelein! Mit wein glass in your paw!
Ve’ll get troonk among de roses,
Und pe soper on de shtraw!”

Dey dook der Breitmann homewarts,