Part 4

Again outspoke the Rodenstein-- 'Hurrah! wild army:--fly! In Assmanshausen there is wine; Let's drink the parson dry! Rouse there! rouse out o' th' house there! Now, priest, God help your like If there be left one drop of wine When you hear midnight strike.'

The priest, a valiant clergyman, Stood raging by the door; With scapulary, cross, and bann, He cursed the spirit o'er. 'Rouse there! rouse out o' th' house, there! The devil help you delve, If you dig out one drop of wine Before the clock strikes twelve!'

But laughing growled the Rodenstein, 'Oh, priest, I'll catch you yet; A ghost who's shut in front from wine, Through the back door can get. Fly'n there! fly'n there to the wine, there! Hurrah--we're in! they shout. His cellar is not badly filled! Hurrah! we'll drink him out!'

Oh, poor and pious priestly heart! Bad spirits rule this hour. In vain he roared out cellar ward, Till he cracked the vault with power-- 'Swine there! swine there by the wine, there! Is't decent, let me know? Oh, can't you leave me wine enough For a gentleman to show?'

And when the clock struck One, all rough The ghosts began to cry, 'Ho, Parson! now we've got enough! Ho, Parson! now good-bye! Rouse there! rouse out o' th' house, there! Now, Parson, all is sprung; There runs no more one drop of wine From spicket, jug, or bung!'

Then cursed the priest, 'My thanks to you, Confound it!--All is gone. Then I myself in your wild crew, As chaplain will dash on! Rouse there! rouse out o' th' house, there! Sir Knight--at one we'll be. If all my wine to the devil's gone, The devil may preach for me! Huzzah! Hallo!--Yo hi ha ho! Rum diri di!--it's gone! Hoy diri do!--I'm on! In the devil's chorus--all before us, Row--dow-dydow!'

RODENSTEIN.

Und wieder sprach der Rodenstein-- 'Pelzkappenschwerenoth! Hans Schleuning, Stabstrompeter mein, Bist untreu oder todt? Lebst noch? Lebst noch und hebst noch? Man g'spürt dich nirgend mehr; Schon naht die durf'tge Mainweinzeit, Du musst mir wieder her!'

Again outspoke the Rodenstein-- 'May thunder split my head! Hans Schleuning, trumpeter of mine, Art thou untrue or dead? Art living man?--art moving?-- No trace I find of thee; The thirsty May-wine time is near:-- Oh, come again to me!'

He rode till he to Darmstadt came, And badly still he fared, Till halting at The Old Black Lamb, He through the window glared. 'He lives still!--thrives still!--lives still! But ask not how from me. How comes my brave old fugle-man In such a company?'

Without a word, without a wink, There sat a solemn crowd; Small beer was all their evening drink, There rang no word aloud. 'So-bri-ety, pro-pri-ety! Is a great duty, sir!' So whispered a small vestry-man Unto a colporteur.

Among these half-glass tippling men A silent guest there sat; And as the clock struck eight just then, He caught up stick and hat. 'What eight! what eight! Good-night! 'tis late! I've learned good hours to keep; Ah well!--a steady life's the best, I'll go to bed and sleep!'

The Rodenstein in grimmest scorn Glared o'er his horse's mane; Then thrice he blew his hunting horn With thundering refrain: 'Rouse there! rouse out o' th' house, there! Rouse out your runaway! That lame, tame guest, ye cursed crew, Belongs to me, I say.'

A shudder swept across that guest Like some strange sense of sin; Then with a jug, like one possessed, He smashed the window in. 'Rouse house, and curse the house, here! Oh, horn and spur and scorn. Oh Rodenstein! Oh, German wine! I am not lost and lorn! Rum diri di--all right, Hey, diri da--free night! Old patron mine--again I'm thine! Huzza! Hallo! Huzza! Hallo! Yo hi a ho!--Arouse! Hi--a-ho! Hi--o!'

HEIDELBERG.

NUMBER EIGHT.

(IN THE COURT OF HOLLAND IN HEIDELBERG.)

Zwei Schatten seh' ich schweben In später, später Nacht; Wisst Ihr, wohin sie streben?-- --Beide auf Numero Acht!--

I see two shadows sweeping In deep, deep night so late; And know'st thou where they creeping? --Both--both to Number Eight!

The porter hears them drumming, And, waking, bids them wait: He well knows who is coming, Those two in Number Eight.

'Old Holland knows the crowd is Right from the Wild Hunt straight! Oh, owe, you gay old rowdies, Who room in Number Eight!

'Is that the way a writer Makes the world calls great? You early-cock-tail-fighter, You birds in Number Eight!

'Is't thus a pious pastor On his flock should meditate? You sinful-hearted master, You rips in Number Eight!

The porter in his throttle Deep grumbling holds debate, And hears: 'Another bottle Or two--for Number Eight!'

With a singing and a dinging, And laughter long and great, Till the landlord hears it ringing, The two in Number Eight!

He spits and turns his nose up, The bedstead groans with weight, And then a snuff-pinch goes up, 'Those men in Number Eight!'

THE MARTIN'S GOOSE.

Der Mensch ist ein Barbar von Natur, Er achtet nicht im mindesten die Nebencreatur, Thut sieden sir und braten, Verspeist sie mit Salaten, Schütt't Wein oben drauf aus güldnem Gefäss Und nennt das gelehrt: Ernährungsprocess.

All men are barbarous, 'tis true. Nor care for their fellow-beings a sous. They roast 'em, boil 'em, scour' em, With salad then devour them; Pour wine upon 'em in this condition, And learnedly call the process nutrition.

I a good goose they have also caught, Feathered and unto the table brought. To King Gambrinus Once spake Saint Martinus: 'This world, my lord, is nothing here, But a priest's slice is good with wine or beer.'

The 'leventh November was the day When he this with emphasis chanced to say, 'Therefore it is our use To roast the Martin's Goose.' I, poor bird, that is my reward, And they eat me by a subscription card.

How different it was upon the heather, When as gosling I stood for hours together, On one foot resting, My bill and eye twisting Unto my true love, so handsome and fine, Who had flown as a gander, of age, o'er the Rhine.

Oh, would that I ne'er in town had been, Where never a cook of refinement is seen! She laughed at me so rudely, And pinched my legs so lewdly, And said, 'Though you feel as if squeezed and jammed, With Indian corn your crop must be crammed.'

So even while breathing and heaving sighs, I am destined for roasts or Strasburg pies. My mind is lost for ever, I only grow in the liver; They never ask, 'Is she gentle and fair?' They only ask, 'What weight will she bear?

Is that our reward, because well behaved? The world's capital one night we saved. For, as they had been drinking, All were asleep, unthinking; Had it not been for our clatter and clack, Rome had been French--yes, in Anno Tubak.

Save your scorn, gentlemen--take our advice, We shall not save civilization twice; And if to the Capitol, Storm Claret, Hock, and Bowl, No goose again will warn you from surprise, Or hinder the red monkeys from dancing 'fore your eyes.

THE LAST TROUSERS.

Melody,--'_'Tis the last Rose of Summer_.'

Letzte Hose, die mich schmückte, Fahre wohl! dein Amt ist aus, Ach auch Dich, die mich entzückte, Schleppt ein Andrer nun nach Haus.

'Tis my la-a-st pair of bre-e-eches Le-e-ft sa-a-dly a-lone; Ah--and she too with her riches, With another hence has gone.

Oh, they seemed in one piece knitted, Such a pair is seldom matched; Winter-buckskin, how they fitted! Large plaid pattern, never patched!

Strutting proudly as a turkey, With those breeks I first sailed in; In my pocket to the door-key Rang such lots of lovely tin.

Ah, we fall as we have risen-- Soon no specie showed its face; And the Heidelberg town-prison Is a dark and silent place.

Soon I pawned all things worth pawning, Dress-coat, frock, and mantle light. You too, now, ere morrow's dawning, My last trousers, good--good-night!

Day of trial, with what sorrow Do I feel thy pain at last; Nothing earthly bides the morrow, And the pledge-laws travel fast.

All must go, though strictly hoarded, Oh, last trousers, last of mine! Elkan Levi, gloomy, sordid, Old clo',--take them, they are thine!

Boots!--of all my friends the truest, Come and prop my suffering head; But one pint, and that of newest,[7] May'st thou bring--enough is said!

Then abed, from this sad hour, I'll not rise, though all should ring, Till a heavy golden shower Through the roof comes pattering.

Then begone, for we must sever, Greet thy fellows in their cell. Ah! my legs already shiver; My last breeches,--fare ye well!

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

[Footnote 6: Noch ein' einziger Schoppen Neuer. The newest wine or cheapest.]

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

THE LAST POSTILLION.

Bald ist, so weit die Menschheit haust, Der Schienenweg gespannt; Es keucht und schnaubt und stampft und saust Das Dampfross rings durch's Land.

As soon as men have gathered there, The iron road's at hand; Then comes with scream and stamp and blare The steam-horse through the land.

And if five hundred years should pass, The learnedst cannot say What once on earth a teamster was, Or waggon-right and way.

And only in the solstice-night, Where mystic figures gleam, Tween earth and sky in lowering light, You'll see a wondrous team.

The grey horse tramps, the whip cracks fair, Loud rings the post-horn's tone; A ghost comes coaching through the air, A grey old postilli-ón.

On yellow coat in moonlight cold, Thurn Taxis' buttons shine: He smokes tobacco ages old, From Ulm pipe brown and fine.

He smokes and speaks: 'Oh, earthly ball, How changed since days of mine, When I, with song and crack and call, Was postman on the Rhine.

'Oh, time of passports, tramps, and knaves, Of fees and sprees o' nights, Of post-stalls and of wanderstaves, Of high ideal flights.

'The world now moves by rent and cent, The best long since are gone; And with the last old porter went The last old postilli-ón.

'Now steam runs wild, wind burns in haste, All time has burst its bonds; The sun paints pictures; lightning fast The long wire corresponds.

'Oh, armour new!--Oh, same old fight! Where is there peace to-day? Oh, gas, phosphorus, steam, and light! Away, my horse,--away!'

WINE OF SIXTY-FIVE.

In luftiger Trinkkemenaten --Den Ort gesteht man nicht ein-- Da prüften drei späte Nomaden Den edelsten pfälzischen Wein.

In a tavern, in cool, pleasant weather-- I know not the name or the sign-- Three travellers were drinking together The noblest Palatinate wine. In grand ruddy Römers was blinking The fine pearling Rieslinger gold, And vines on the trellis were winking In moonlight from grape-eyes untold.

The first, a far-travelled and wary Philologist, spoke out his mind: 'This was made by the fire-sprite and fairy, With ether and sunshine combined. So it glows and it flows ever finer; Spirit-sparkling, soft-rythmic we mix; Like Ionian drink-songs in minor, When sung by Homerical bricks'

The second, a dried-up old fellow, Who the law of the Romans professed, 'Proficiat,' said he, ''tis mellow. 'What we sip is not far from the best. Who sees not when Bacchus's donum In this glass gleams like gold i' the sun, That the Justum, æquum et bonum, In this Roman are blended in one.'

The third one, while trimming the tapers, Said modestly, next: 'Do ye see I'm no poet, and none of the papers Get writin's from fellows like me. But I tell you, my heart rattles quicker, When such wine as I've got here I swills; It's an out-and-out beautiful liquor,-- God bless them Palatinate hills!'

Meanwhile, with a spear on his shoulder, By the bridge went a fourth man along; And waving his weapon, the holder Sang out to the night-wind his song. 'Ye gentlemen, hear what I'm singing: The public need sleep--do you mind? Eleven o'clock has done ringing; You must all go to bed, or be fined!'

PERKÊO.

Das war der Zwerg Perkêo im Heidelberger Schloss, An Wuchse klein und winzig, an Durste riesengross.

It was the dwarf Perkêo, in Heidelberg of old, A wretched mite in stature, in thirst a giant bold.

When for a fool they jeered him: 'Good people mine,' said he, 'Would you were all wet-jolly, and fond of fun like me.'

But when the Tun of Heidelberg was filled with wine one year, Then all his future standpoint unto the dwarf was clear.

'Farewell,' said he, 'oh, world, thou vale of miser-misery. All things men turn their hand to is _tout égal_ to me.

'For wooden, stupid notions full many heats are broke, And what it all amounts to is dust and steam and smoke.

''Tis all _in vino veritas_. In drinking, from this day, Will I, the tough old jester, pass all my life away.'

Perkêo sought the cellar, and forth no more came he, For fifteen years deep drinking at Rhenish Malvasie.

Though all was dark around him, an inner radiance rained; And though his legs went shaking, he drank and ne'er complained.

When first he sought the wine-vat 'twas heavy, full, and high; But in his dying moments it rang empty, dull, and dry.

Then piously he uttered: 'Now praise the Lord at length, Who in me, a weak mannikin, has shown such wondrous strength!

'As once in triumph David against Goliath stood, So I, the little dwarflet, the giant Thirst subdued.

'Now sing a De profundis until the vault groans round. The Tun is fairly done for. I fall with vict'ry crowned.'

And in the vault they laid him. Around his cellar-grave, And from the empty wine-vat, as yet damp vapours wave.

And who, as pious pilgrim, has early sought that shrine, Woe to him! In the evening he goes howling round in wine.

THE RETURN HOME.

Der Pfarrer von Assmanshausen sprach: 'Die Welt steckt tief in Sünden, Doch wo der Meister Josephus steckt Weiss Keiner mir zu künden.'

The priest of Assmanshausen spoke: 'The world lies deep in sin; But where our Master Joseph lies Knows neither kith nor kin.'

And as they decked for Christmas-tide, The Rhine was frozen o'er; There came a man in pilgrims garb, And stood before the door.

'Now shrive me, shrive me, holy priest, Full pardon I would gain; All that my poor, sad-sorrowing heart, May turn to joy again.

'The sin I did was this, that I Did not in Rhine-land bide; There's nothing like it in the world, Wherever you run or ride.

'For a hundred leagues behind Lyóns, I travelled France-land through; And many a meal of oysters and sack I ate, and enjoyed it too.

'Full oft at Marseilles in the Café Turk, Among heathens and niggers I sat; And, deep in the Pyrenean hills, Garbanzos and garlic ate.

'Still whirls my brain when I recall The mountain-lake maid Filuméne, With gipsy-brown face and coal-black hair, Each tooth like an ivory grain.

'But bepitched and besulphured is every land, Without friends and song and love, And shaken with fever, and all burned out, From the foreign realms I rove.'

The priest of Assmanshausen spoke: 'Tis well, oh penitent soul; Anoint thy lips with the purple wine From this holy ancient bowl.

'And by that wine three days, three nights, In the deep, dark cellar abide; And drinking, keep by the barrels watch, Till grace in thy heart shall glide.

'And then in the Crown and Anchor join In spiritual exercise; And not till the watchman warns you, leave The club with its songs and cries.

'Then Heaven will surely show thee a sign,-- It heeds every penitent's woes!-- A delicate wine-green, a carbuncle red, Will colour thy forehead and nose.

'And when that nose is a rubied one, All care will quit thy brain; And then may'st thou, oh, long-lost son, Turn back to thy friends again.

'We're the same old fellows; still sing by wine The songs which we sang from dark; Of the Sparrow and the Goldfinch fine, And the summer-heralding Lark.'

'We're the same old fellows, we love thee well, Be thy heart from fretting free; And hadst thou gone loafing yet further afar, Still a calf we would slay for thee.'

The pilgrim sighed with tearful eye-- 'Oh, priest, such a soothing word As you have spoken, pious man, In my travels I never heard.

'And now I strike my barren staff Into this holy earth, That it with spreading branches anew May roof me a home and hearth.

'Flow on, thou Rhine vine-cluster blood. Still thy hoards of grace remain; In thy youth-giving fire-blood I will bathe me to health again.

'Now shall the world, with its snares so bright, Behold my back for ever. Oh, Heidelberg, shining star in the night, I leave thee never--and never!'

MISCELLANEOUS.

HEINZ VON STEIN.

Outrode from his wild dark castle The terrible Heinz von Stein: He came to the door of a tavern, And gazed at the swinging sign.

He sat himself down at a table, And growled for a bottle of wine; Up came, with a flask and a corkscrew, A maiden of beauty divine.

Then, seized with a deep love-longing, He uttered, 'Oh, damosell mine, Suppose you just give a few kisses To the valorous Ritter von Stein.'

But she answered, 'The kissing business Is entirely out of my line; And I certainly will not begin it On a countenance ugly as thine.'

Oh, then the bold knight was angry. And curséd both coarse and fine; And asked, 'How much is the swindle For your sour and nasty wine?

And fiercely he rode to the castle, And sat himself down to dine; And this is the dreadful legend Of the terrible Heinz von Stein.

THE HOLY COAT AT TREVES.

Freifrau von Droste Vischering, Viva Vischering; Zum heil'gen Rock nach Triere ging, Tri tra Triere ging.

Frei-frau von Droste Fischering, Fee-fau--Fischering; To the Holy Coat went pilgriming, Pee-pau--pilgriming. She crawled upon all four--o, And found it was a bore--o, For gladly without crutches One through this hard world pushes.

She cried as to the Coat she came, Kee-kaw--Coat she came, 'I am in hand and footkin lame, Fee-faw--footkin lame. Thou, Coat, art avocations, That maketh thee so gracious, On me thy light increase, oh! I am the Bishops niece, oh!'

And then the Coat, in its holy shrine, Hee-haw--holy shrine, At once gave out a silver shine, See-saw-silver shine. She felt it come all o'er her, She kicked the chair before her. Ran like the devil down the stair, And left her crutches lying there.

Frei-frau von Droste Fischering, Fee-faw--Fischering; That night went dancing in a ring, Ree-raw--in a ring. This wonder which we now send Took place in the year one thousand Eight hundred four and foughty; Who don't believe it--'s naughty.

RAMBAMBO.

Der Beglerbeg Rambambo, Zu Belgrad im Castell, Sprach: 'Alter Vizebambo, Die Hitz' brennt wie die Höll.

The Beg-ler-beg Rambambo, Near Belgrade's citadel, Said: 'Capudan Vizebambo, The heat's as hot as hell. Drink as the Christians drink, While the liquor flows; Turkey is too dry a land, As everybody knows.

'You cannoneer, fill up with beer The bomb-shells up and down; Fill up with beer the caniste-er, And fire them at the town!' At midnight hour bang went a gun, A Pacha rides and says: 'By Allah!--Sire--all Belgarad Is on a tearing blaze!

'All Belgarad is blazing drunk, Without a cent to spend; The Crescent's drinking with the Cross; This war is at an end. Drink as the Christians drink, While the liquor flows; Turkey is too dry a land, As everybody knows.'

BIBESCO.

Auf dem Schlosse von Gradesco, Hinterwärts von Temeswar, Sass der tapfre Fürst Bibesco, Serbien's greiser Hospodar.

In the Castle of Gradesco, By the town of Temesvar, Sat the valiant Prince Bibesco, Servia's grey old hospodar.

Say,--what did the Prince Bibesco, Servia's grey old hospodar, In the Castle of Gradesco, By the town of Temesvar?

Slibovitz drank Prince Bibesco, Servia's grey old hospodar, In the Castle of Gradesco, Till he couldn't see a star.

THE JOLLY BROTHER.

BY COUNT ALBERT VON SCHLIPPENBACH.

Ein Heller und ein Batzen Die waren beide mein, Der Heller ward zu Wasser, Der Batzen ward zu Wein.

A farthing and a sixpence, And both of them were mine; The farthing went for water, And the sixpence went for wine.

The landlord and his daughter Cry, both of them, 'Oh, woe!' The landlord when I'm coming, And the daughter when I go.

My shoes are all in pieces, My boots are torn, d'ye see; And yonder, on the hedges, The birds are singing free.

And if there were no taverns, I'd never wish to roam; And no bung-hole in the barrel, Then I couldn't drink at home.

THE STUDENT'S DRESS-COAT.

FROM WILHELM CASPARY.

Mein Frack ist im Pfandhaus, mein Frack ist nicht hier, Du prangst stets im Ballkleid und ich nicht bei dir.