Chapter 8

Id's all along de Elysees, Id's oop de Boulevarce, He's sampled all de weinshops, Und he's vinked at efery garce. Dou schveet plack-silken Gabrielle, O let me learn from dee, If 'tis in lofe - or absinthe drunks, Dat dis wild ghost may pe?

Und dou may'st kneel in Notre Dame, Und veep away dy sin, Vhile I go vight at Barriere balls, Oontil mine poots cave in; Boot if ve pray, or if ve sin- Vhile nodings ish refuse, Tis all de same in Paris here, So long ash l'on s'amuse.

O life, mein dear, at pest or vorst, Ish boot a vancy ball, Its cratest shoy a vild gallop, Vhere madness goferns all. Und should dey toorn ids gas-light off, Und nefer leafe a shbark, Sdill I'd find my vay to Heafen - or- Dy lips, lofe, in de dark.

O crown your het mit roses, lofe! O keep a liddel sprung! Oonendless wisdom ish but dis: To go it vhile you're yung! Und Age vas nefer coom to him, To him Spring plooms afresh, Who finds a livin' spirit in Der Teufel und der Flesh.

BREITMANN IN LA SORBONNE.

DER Breitmann sits in la Sorbonne, A note-pook in his hand, 'Tvas dere he vent to lectures, Und in oldt Louis le Grand. Id's more ash two und dwendy years Since here I used mein pen; Oh, where ish all de characders, Dat I hafe known since denn?

Der cratest boet efer vas, Der pest I efer known, Vent lecdures here, too, shoost like me, Le Sieur Francoys Villon. He raise de teufel all arount, He hear de Sorbonne chime; Crate shpirid ender in mein heart, Und mofe mein soul to rhyme.

BALADE.

Dictes moy - in what shpirit land Ish Clara Lafontaine? Or Pomare, or La Frisette, Who blazed on soosh a train? Shveet Echo flings de quesdion pack, O'er lake or shdreamlet lone; All eartly peauty fades afay, Vhere ish dem lofed ones gone?

Oh, vhere ish Lola Montez now, So loved in efery land? How oft I shmoked dose cigarettes She rollt mit vairy hand! Dat mighdy soul, dat shplendit brick, A saint's pecome to be, For mit soosh saints der Breitmann make His Hagiologie.

Und vhere ish La Pochardinette? Ish she too mit de dead? She loafed de Latin Quarter mit A hat und fedder on her het. Lebe wohl petite Pochardinette! Qui ne safait refuser, Ni la ponche a la bleine ferre, Ni sa pouche a un paiser.

O Prince! dese quesdions all are nix, I sit here all alone, Mit von refrain to end de shdrain, Vhere ish mein lofed vons gone? Vhen Marcovitch has cut und run, Und Schneider's off de ving, Some cray old reprobate like me Vill of dese lofed vons sing.

BREITMANN IN FORTY-EIGHT.

DERE woned once a studente, All in der Stadt Paris,[56] Whom jeder der ihn kennte, Der rowdy Breitmann hiess. He roosted in de rue La Harpe, Im Luxembourg Hotel, 'Twas shoost in anno '48, Dat all dese dings pefel.

Boot he who vouldt go hoontin now To find dat rue La Harpe, Moost hafe oongommon shpecdagles, Und look darnation sharp. For der Kaisar und his Hausmann Mit hauses made so vree, Dere roon shoost now a Bouleverse Vhere dis shdreet used to pe.

In dis Hotel de Luxembourg, A vild oldt shdory say, A shtudent vonce pring home a dame, Und on de nexter day, He pooled a ribbon from her neck- Off fell de lady's het; She'd trafelled from de guillotine, Und valked de city - deadt.

Boot Breitmann nefer cared himself If dis vas falsch or drue, I kess he hat mit lifin gals Pout quite enough to do. Und Februar vas gomin, Ganz revolutionnaire, Und vhere der Teufel had vork on hand, Der Hans vas alvays dere.

Und darker grew de beople's brows, No Banquet could dey raise, So dey shtood und shvore at gorners, Or dey singed de Marseillaise. Und here und dere a crashin sound Like forcin shutters ran, Und boorstin gun-schmidts' vindows in Hard vorked der Breitemann.

He helped to howl Les Girondins, To cheer de beople's hearts; He maket dem bild parricades Mit garriages und garts. Vhen a bretty maiden sendinel Vonce ask de countersign, He gafe das kind a rousin giss, Gott hute dir und dein!

Und wilder vent de pattle, France spread her oriflamme, Und deeper roared de sturm bell, De bell of Notre Dame; Und he who nefer heard it, O'er shots und cries of fear, Loud booming like a dragon's roar, Has someding yet to hear.

Und in de Fauborg Sainte Antoine Dere comed a fusillade, Und dyin groans und fallin dead Vere roundt dat parricade, But der song of Revolution From a tousand voices round, Made a fearful opera gorus To de deat' gries on de ground.

Und all around dose parricades Dey raise der teufel dere; Somedimes dey vork mit pig-axes, Und somedimes mit gewehr. Dey maket prifate houses Gife all deir arms afay, Und denn oopon de panels Dey writet Armes donnees.

Und ve saw mid roarin vollies, Shtreaked like banded settin suns, Two regiments coome ofer, Und telifer oop deir guns. Hei! - how de deers vere roonin: Hei! - how dey gryed hurrahs! For dey saw de vight vas ofer, Und dey know dey gained deir cause.

Dus spoke deir hearts outboorstin, In battle by de blade, From sun to sun mit roarin gun Und donnerin parricade. In vain pefore de depudies De princes tremblin stood, Vot comes in France too late a day Cooms shoost in dime for blood.

Vhen de Tuileries vas daken, Amid de scotterin shot, Und vlyin stones, und howlin, Und curses vild und hot, 'Tvas dere Hans clobbed his musket, Und dere de man vas first To roosh into de palace, Ven de toors vere in-geburst.

Some vellers burn de guart-haus, Some trink des Konigs wein; Some fill deir hats mit rasbry sham, Und prandy beeches fein. Hans Breitmann in de gitchen Vas shdare like avery ding, To see vot lots of victual-de-dees Id dakes to feed a king.

Und oder volk, like plackguarts, Vent dook de goaches out; Und burnin dem, dey rolled dem Afay mit yell und shout. Der Breitmann in der barlor, Help writen rapidly, La liberte pour la Pologne! Likevise - pour l'Italie!

Den in der Tuileries courtyard Ten tousand volk come on; Dey vas gissin und hurrahin For to dink der king vas gone. Some vas hollerin und tantzin Round de blazin oldt caboose; Vhen Frantschmen kits a goin, Den dey lets der teufel loose.

Boot von veller set me laughin, Who roosh madly roun de field; He hat rop de Cluny Museum, Und gestohlen speer und schild. Mit a sblendit royal charger, Vitch he hat somevhere found, Like a trunken Don Quixote, He vent tearin oop und round.

Doun vent de line of Bourbons, Doun vent de vork of years, Ash de pillars of deir temple Ge-crashed like splintered speers; Und o'er dem rosed a phantom, Wild, beautiful, und weak, Vhile millions gry arount her- Vive! vive la Republique;

Tree days mid shdiflin powder shmoke, Tree days mid cheers und groans, Ve fought to guard de parricades, Or pile dem oop mit shtones. De hand vitch held de bistol denn, Or made de crowbar bite, Das war de same Hans Breitmann's hand Vitch now dese verses write.

BREITMANN IN BELGIUM.

"Vlaenderen, dag en nacht Denk ik aen u. Waer ik ook ben en vaer, Gy zyt my altyd naer. Vlaenderen, dag en nacht Denk ik aen u.

Overal vrolykheid, Overal lust. Maegden van fier gelaet, Knapen zoo vroom en draet. Overal vrolykheid, Overal lust." - Hoffmann von Fallersleben.

SPA.

VHEN sommer drees shake fort deir leafs, Ash maids shake out deir locks, Und singen mit de rifulets, Vitch ripplen round de rocks, Und beople swarm land-outwards, Und cities weary men, Hans Breitmann rode de Belgier mark For Spa in Les Ardennes.

Und vhen he came to Spadenland, He found it fein und fair, For dey pour him out de peke schnapps, Dazu elixer rare; Und mit a soldier's inshdink To find a shanse to shoot, Mitout delay he fire afay Right in de Grande Redoute.[57]

De virst shot dat der Breitmann fired He pring de peaches down, For he hit de double zero mit A gold Napoleon. Und ash he raked de shiners in, He hummed a liddle doon: "I kess I tont try dat again," Said he, dis afdernoon.

Boot vhen he coom to rouge et noir, A tear fell tripplin denn, Id look so moosh like goot old dimes, To come dose games again. Yet vhen he lossed a hundred francs, He sadly toorned afay, "I'd rader keep de tiger here, Dan vight him, any day."

Und shtanding py de daple, He saw a French lorette Vat porrowed shpecie all around, Und lossed at efery bet. "Id's all de same mit dis or dat, Or any kind of sin, De lorette or de rolette - bot' Will make de money shpin."

He trinket of Le Pouhon well, Und from La Sauveniere; He tried it ad de Barisart, Und auch de Geronstere. "Dey say dat Troot' lie in a well, So trink from all we can, Und here we'll prove dat Troot is Health," Dat's so, sayd Breitemann.

So long in ruined Franchimont He sat on hollowed ground, Und dinked of Wilhelm de la Marck, Who'd raked dat coontry round. "Mein Gott! how id vas mofe mine heart To read in hishdory, Und find de scattered shinin lights Of vellers shoost like me!

"Dis nople boar-pig of Ardennes, Dis shtately Wallowin lord, Vas make him vamous py de pen, Und glorious py de swordt. Und showed his hero-scholarship, Vhen he wrote to de pishop, 'Satis, Brulabo monasterium Vestrum, si non payatis.'

"Dey say dat in de keller here Dere lifes a coblin briest, Dereto a teufelsjagersmann Vot guard a specie chest. O if I vonce could find de vay, Und spot dat box of checks, I voonder shoost how long 'twould pe Pefore I'd twis deir necks."

Und in de Walk of Meyerbeer, Vhere plashin brooklets ring, He see vhere in de water wild De wood-birds flip deir wing. "Ash de prooklet's lost in de rifer, Und de rifer's lost in de sea, Mine soul kits lost on water 'plain,'" Says Breitemann, says he.

Und ash he walked de Meyerbeer He marcked, peside de way, A rock shoost like a wild boar's head, Vraie tete du sanglier. Der Breitmann heafe a shiant sigh, Und say mit 'motion grand: Von crate idee ish uber all In dis der Schweinpig's land.

He drafel troo de Val d'Ambleve, He lounge de schweet Sept Heures, He shdare indo de window-shops, Und see de painted ware.[58] He looket at de fans und dings, Denn said, "To tell de trut', Dere's painted vares more dear ash dis Oop shdairs in La Redoute."

Und sittin in de Champignon, Vitch rose 'neat Lofe's schweet hand, He read in books of Marmontel, Of Jeannette et Lubin. Id's nice to see Simplicitas Rococoed oop mit vlowers, Und dink soosh virtue shdill may life In dis base vorldt of ours.

'Tvas here, oopon de Spadoumont Deir gottashe used to set; 'Tvas here they keeped von simple cow Likevise an lettuce-bett. Berhaps I hafe crown vorldly since, Yet shdill may druly say, Dat in mine poyhood's tays I vas Apout so good ash dey.

But he vot vant to see dis land, Und has nod time for all: Eash woodland nook und shady brook; On Herr Marcette shouldt call. For he has baintet all to live Vhen de drees demselfs are gone; Und shoost so goot as artist, auch, Ish he bon compagnon.

Farevell, schveet Spa - dou home of vlowers, Of ruin and of rock, Vhere vild pirds sing und de band ish blay Eash day at sefen o'clock. If all de shbrees dat Spa has seen Vere melted into von, De soul vouldt reach Nirwana - lost In transcendental fun.

OSTENDE.

"Hupsa! jonker Jan, Die wel ruiter worden kan."

BOON tidings to der Breitmann came Ash he at table end, Dere's right goot fisch at Blankenberghe, Und oysters in Ostend. Denn to Ostland ve will reiten gaen, To Ostland o'er de sand, Dou und I mit pridle drawn For dere ish de oyster land.

Und vhen dey shtood bei Ostersee, Vhere de waters roar like sin, Dere coom five hundert fischer volk To dake der Breitmann in. "Gotts doonder! Should ve doomple down Amoong de waters plue, I kess you'd vant more help from me Dan I should vant from you!

"If you hat peen vhere I hafe peen Und see vot I hafe see, Vhere de surf rise oop nine tausend feet, In de land of Nieuw Jarsie Und schwimmed dat surf ash I hafe schwimmed, Peside de Jersey stran'"- From dat day fort' de Ostland men Shdeered glear of der Breitemann.

Boot von ding set him schvearin so, I dinked he'd nefer cease, De Ostend oysters kostet more In Ostend als Paris. Hans asked an anciendt fisherman, To 'splain dis if he may, Und says he, "Mijn Heer - dey're beter hier Als ein hundert leagues afay.

"Und as de oysters beter hier Of course dey kostet more"- Der Breitmann dook his bilcrim shdaff, Und toorned him to de toor. Says Hans, "De Vlaemsche fischermen Can sheat de vorldt I pet Dey sheaten von anoder too, All's fisch to a Dutchman's net.

"Der king peginned a palace hier, De palace hat to shtop, He foundt de beoples sheaten so He gife de bildin oop. Aldough das Leben hier ish goot, Ad least Ostend-sibly"- So shpoke der Breitemann und cut Dat city py de sea.

GENT.

"Wie kennt die stad waer alles nog Van Vlaenderens grootheid spreekt? Waer ontrouw, valschheid en bedrog Van schaemte nog verbleekt?" - Ledeganck.

If I hat gold, as I hafe time, I tells you how 'tvere shpent, On efery year I'd shtay a week In Vlanderen's hoofstad, Gent. For, oh! de sveet wild veelins, In dat stad do mofe me so, Vhen I'd dink of all de clorious men Vot life dere long aco.

If efer man hat manly heart, He'd veel dat heart to beat, Vhen mit de oldten dime of Ghent He valks troo efery shdreet. Und ach! de volk are yet so goot, It gave me soosh a pliss, Vhen I hear a bier-hous spielman sing A melodie like dis:-

"Het was op eenen Monday, All on a Monday free, Dat mijnheere Jacob Van Artevelde Unto his men said he: He seide - 'Mijn lief gesellen, Ve all moost ride out land, And trive our way to Bruges town Or Brussel in Braband.'

"Und as he oonto Brussel cam, De meisjes sprong from bed, Und found Mynheere Van Artevelde Mit a cross-bolt troo his head." Und shoost pecause dis bier-hous song Recht troo my heartsen vent, I feel dat I could life und die All in de down of Gent.

BREITMANN IN HOLLAND.

'S GRAVENHAGE - THE HAGUE.

IN dis boem, mein freund der Herr Breitmann hafe his fiews on art pefore-geset mit a deepness und shorthood vich is bropably oonliked in Aesthetik. Ve hafe here, within de circumcomprehensifeness of dirty-two lines, a theorie vitch - shortsomely exbressed - sends to der teufel efery dings ash vas efer gescribed pefore on kunst or art, und maket efery podies from Baumgartner doun to Fischer und Taine, look shoost like puddin-headet old gasbalgs. Boot to de boem. For de informadion of dem ash ish not gestudied art, I vould shtate dat Adriaan Brauwer (who ish as regards an unvollkomene technik de first of all Holland malers), vas nefer paint nodings boot droonken plackguards und liederlich dings, und Van Ostade und Jan Steen vas in most deir bilds a goot deal like him. - FRITZ SCHWACKENHAMMER.

Hans reitet troo de Nederland, From Rotterdam below, To Gravenhaag und Leyden Und Haarlem - all a row; He shtoodit in de galleries A tausend works of art; Boot ach - der Adriaan Brauwer, Vent most teepest to his heart.

Und dus exglaim der Breitmann In woonder-solemn shdrain, "De cratest men vere Brauwer, Van Ostade, und Jan Steen. Der Raffael vas vel enof; Dat ish in his shmall vay; Boot - Gott im Himmel! - vot vas he Coompared mit soosh as dey?

"Shoost see dat vight of troonken boors- Von tears de oder's goat: Vhile de oder mit a pointet knife Ish goin for his troat. Und a madchen mit a tree-leg shtuhl Ish clip him on de het, In dese higher human passion valks, Der Raffael's coldt und deadt.

"De more ve digs into de eart'- Or less ve seeks a star,- De nearer ve to Natur coom, More pantheistich far; To him who reads dis myst'ry right, Mit insbiration gifen, Der Raffael's rollen in de dirt, Vhile Brauwer soars to Heafen.

LEYDEN.

TIS shveet to valk in Holland towns Apout de twilicht tide, Vhen all ish shdill on proad canals, Safe vhere a poat may clide. Shdrange light on darkenin vater falls, In long soft lines afar, Der abenddroth on dunkelheit, Vitch shows - or hides - a star.

De pridges risen all aroundt So quaindly, left und right, Pedween each pridge und shattow, lies, A lemon of yellow light, Und das volk a-goin ober, So darklin onwarts pass, Dey look like Chinese shattows - shown Apofe a lookin-glass.

All shdiller grows, und shdiller, Sogar die efenin preeze, Ish only heardt far ober het In dese long lines of drees; A real oldt Holland feelin Cooms gadderin ober all, You'd nefer dink a sturm hat peen Oopon dis Grand Canawl.

De nople houses! - how dey'd mofe An old New Yorker's heart, Time vas - twix dese und dose at home You couldn't tell 'em part, Mit crate brass knockers on de toors, Und parlors town so low You see de crates a glowin prite O'er carbets ash you go.

Dere's comfort-full of avery dings, You veel it ash you look, You knows de volks ish opulend, Und keep a bully cook; Und oopon de high camine, Or here und dere on shelf, Dere's Japanesisch dings in rows, Pe mingled oop mit delf.

Dere's noding in dis Holland life, Vitch seems of present day, De fery shildren in de shdreeds Look quaintlich as dey blay; De liddle rosy housemaids, In bicdures vell I know, De dames und heers hafe all an air Of sixdy years ago.

They may dalk of anciendt hishdory Und for romantisch seek, De ding dat mofes most teeply ish Old-vashioned - not antique. O if you live in Leyden town You'll meet, if troot' pe told, De forms of all de freunds who tied Vhen du werst six years old.

SCHEVENINGEN, OR DE MAIDEN'S COORSE.

Oldt Flamisch.

HET vas Mijn Heer van Torenborg, Ride oud oopon de sand, Und vait to hear a paardeken; Coom tromplin from de land. He vaited vhen de boeren volk Vent oud oopon de plain, He vaited dill de veary crows Flew nestwarts home acain.

He vaited ash de wild fox vaits In long-some hoonger noth, He vaited dill de flitterin bats Vere plack on Abendroth. Id's woe to watch for taily bread Or bide forgotten call, Boot oh, to vait for heartsen lofe Ish veariest of dem all.

"O dat ish not mine laity's prooch Shoost now so star-like shined, O dat ish not mine laity's haar Soft floatin on de wind. Her goot crayhound mit soosh a step Vas nefer vont to go, Und dat is niet her paardeken Whose shtep so vell I know.

"Dat light ish speer light from a lanz Vitch'll part mine pody und soul, De floatin haar is a pennon gay Or wafin banderol. De crayhound ish a ploot-hound wild Vitch long has dracked me here, Und het paardeken ish a var-horse Vot has hoonted me like deer."

Well shpoke Mijn Heer van Torenborg All drue vas afery wordt, For dey bored him troo mit lanzen, Und dey hewed him mit de swordt. Dey killt him armloss, harmlos; De plooty reiver band; Und puried him so careloosly Dat his vace shtick out de sand.

Boot e'er night's plack hat toorned to red Or e'er de stars vere gone, Dere came de shtep of a paardeken Soft tromplin, tromplin on. A laity fair climped off on him Und trip mit dainty toes:- Boot oh, mijn Gott! - how she vas shkreem Ven she trot on her drue lofe's nose!

"Oh vot ish dis I trots opon? Id's shape fool well I know, Dere nefer yet vas flower like dis, Dat in de garten crow. Dere nefer yet vas fruit like dis Ash ripen on a dree; Het is Mijn Heer van Torenborg Dat kan ik blainly see.

"Dat heerlijk nose, van Torenborg, Ish known of anciend dime, 'Tis writ in olten chronikel Und sung in minsdrel rhyme. Und dis, de noblest of de race Since hishdory pegans, Ish shtickin here - shdraighdt out de dirt, Shoost like some boer manns.

"Oh cuss de man dat mordered him! Ach, cuss him oop and down, Ja - cuss him troo de forest roads, Und tamn him in de toun! Und burn his vater und moder, Vhere'er deir vootshteps vall, Mit his schwesters und his broders, De teufel rake dem all!

"May afery cuss dat e'er vas cusst, Since cussin foorst pegan; Pe hoorled in von drementous cuss, Acainsdt dat nasdy man! From de foorst crate cuss on Adam, To de smalles' of de crop"- Here de tead man gafe a shifer, Und gry oud - "For Gott's sake - shdop!

"Dere's a cerdain lot of shwearin, Vitch anger alvays crafes; Boot spite like dat's enof to pring De tead men from deir craves. I can't lie here no longer, Und hear soosh pizen pain; Und since you've shtirred me out, I kess I'll coom to life acain."

Mit von drementous shkreem of pliss, His drue lofe shtood de shock, Den catcht him wildly py de nose, "Ach Torenborg - lev'st du nock! Ach ja - du aint'st nod tead yet! Dere's life shdill lef' pehind, Gott pless de dat lef' dy nose, Shdill wafin in de wind."

Mit hands all ofer diamonds, She loosed de sand apout, Mit an oyster-shell so wildly She digged her lofer out. "Und now dou'rt in free air, lofe! Who warst shoost now in sand! Dere vasn't ish a nicer man, In all de Nederland!

Vhere vas dit liedeken written, Vhere vas dit liedeken sing, Dat had gedone Hans Breitmann, In de town of Schevening! 'Tvas written ober Rheinwein, 'Tvas written ober bier- Und wer das lied gesungen hat, Gott geb ihm ein glucklich's jahr.[59]

AMSTERDAM.

TO Amsterd-m came Breitmann All in de Kermes tide; Yonge Maegden allegader Filled de straat on afery side. De meisjes in de straaten Vere tantzin alle nacht long; Dere vas kissen, dere vas trinken, Mit a roar of Holland song.

Who went into de straaten Ven de sonn had gone his day, De Dootch gals quickly grapped him Und tantzed him wild avay. Dere was der Prinz von Capua, Who fell among dese wags; Dey tantzed him off in a carmagnole, Und sent him home in rags.

Und den at afery gorner, So peaudifool to see, De volk vas bilin dough-nuts, Or else vas fryin tea. Und Kermes cakes mit boetry, Vitch land-volk dinks a dreat, Mit all of Barnum's blayed out shows In dents along de shdreet.

Id pring de tears to Breitmann's eyes, To find in many a shtand Vot oft he'd baid a quarder for To see in a distand land. De Aztec dwins und de Siamese (Dough soom vere a wachsen sham); Mit de Beardet Frau und de Bear Woman- All here in Amsterdam

De fashion here in Nederland Ish not vot you'd soopose, Mit oos, men bays de vomens, Boot de Dootch gals hires deir beaux! Dey hire dem for de season, Und because moosh rain ish fell, Dey alvays bays a higher brice, For a man mit an umberell.

Und dere vas Nord Hollander maids, So woonderfool to see, Mit caps of gold und goldne pins, Und quaint orfeverie. Likewise de Zeeland Boersmen, Mit silber bootons gay; Und silber belts, und silber knives, Mijn Gott! - how sdrange vere dey!

But dough de men wore silber gear, Und de vrouws in gold were tall, De gals vere gabblin all de dimes, Und de men said noding at all. "Dey say dat sbeech is silbern, Boot silence golden pe, Dat aint de vay dey vork id here," Said Breitemann, said he.

Goot Gott! how Breitmann vent it, In moonlighdt or in rain; Den vakened to Schied-m it, Ven de mornin peamed again. For to solfe von awfool broplem, He vas efer shdill incline; If - den wijn is beter als de min,[60] Or - de min doet veel meer als de wijn.