The Breitmann Ballads Part 22

"O dat ish not mine laity's prooch Shoost now so star-like s.h.i.+ned, 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 n.o.blest 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 s.h.i.+fer, 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-sh.e.l.l 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 d.i.n.ks 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 fas.h.i.+on 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.

Dwo weeks der Breitmann studiet, Vile he vent it on de howl.

He shpree so moosh to find de troot, Dat he lookt like a bi-led owl.

Den he say, "Ik wil honor Bacchus, So long as ik leven shall; Boot not so moosh vercieren As to blace him ofer all.

De rose of lofe is lofely In zomer ven it plow; De bush shdill gifes a bromise, In winter mid de shnow; Ja, als de bloeme is geplukt, En van den steel genomen,[61]

Ve know de peautiful vill life, Till zomer is gekomen.

Boot oh dose vas arch-heafenly dimes, Ven by mine lofe I sat; Und see de maedchen pring de grapes, Und crash dem in a vat.

Und ven her glances unto mine In plessfool ropture toorn; I d.i.n.k dere ne'er vas no dwo c.r.a.pes Like dem plue eyes of hern.

Wat is soeter als de trinken,[62]

Ja - niet kan beter zyn.

Niet is soeter as de minne, It smackt nog beter als wijn.

Es giebt nichts wie die Madchen, Es gibt nichts wie das Bier, Wer liebt nicht alle beide, Wird gar kein Cavalier.

O vot ve vant to quickest come Ish dat vot's soonest gone.

Dis life ish boot a pa.s.sin from de efer-gomin-on.

De gloser dat ve looks ad id, De shmaller it ish grow; Who goats und spurs mit lofe und wein, He makes it fastest go.

GERMANY.

BREITMANN AM RHEIN - COLOGNE.

HOW wunderschon das Vaterland In audumn-life abbears; Vot rainpows gild ids vallies crand, Ven seen troo vallin tears.

Und VON I'll creet mit sang und klang, Und drown in goldnen wein; Old Deutschland's cot her sohn again: Hans Breitmann's on der Rhein.

Und doughts ish schwell dat mighdy heart, Too awfool for make known; Ven dey shunt him from de railroat car Und tropped him in Cologne.