Translations Of German Poetry In American Magazines 1741-1810 Part 29

THE WOLF KING; OR LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD.

An Old Woman's Tale.

Veteres avias tibi de pulmone revello _Persius_.

Translated from the Danish of the author of the Water King, etc., and respectfully inscribed to M. G. Lewis, Esq., M.P., as an humble attempt to imitate his excellent version of that celebrated ballad.

The birds they sung, the morning smil'd The mother kiss'd her darling child, And said ... "My dear, take custards three, And carry to your grandmummie."

The pretty maid had on her head A little riding hood of red, And as she pa.s.s'd the lonely wood, They call'd her small red riding hood.

Her basket on her arm she hung, And as she went thus artless sung: "A lady lived beneath a hill, Who if not gone, resides there still."

The wolf king saw her pa.s.s along, He ey'd her custards heard her song, And cried "That child and custards three This evening shall my supper be!"

Now swift the maid pursu'd her way, And heedless trill'd her plaintive lay; Nor had she pa.s.s'd the murky wood, When lo! the wolf king near her stood.

"Oh! stop my pretty child so gay!

Oh! whither do you bend your way?"

"My little self and custards three Are going to my grandmummie."

"While you by yonder mountain go, On which the azure blue bells grow, I'll take this road; then haste thee, dear, Or I before you will be there.

"And when our racing shall be done, A kiss you forfeit, if I've won; Your prize shall be, if first you come, Some barley sugar and a plumb."

"Oh! thank you, good sir Wolf," said she, And dropt a pretty courtesie: The little maid then onward hied, And sought the blue bell mountain side.

The wolf sped on o'er marsh and moor, And faintly tapp'd at granny's door: "Oh! let me in, grandmummy good, For I am small red riding hood."

"The bobbin pull (the grandam cried), The door will then fly open wide."

The crafty wolf the bobbin drew, And straight the door wide open flew.

He pac'd the bed room eight times four, And utter'd thrice a hideous roar; He pac'd the bed room nine times three, And then devour'd poor grandmummie.

He dash'd her brains out on the stones, He gnaw'd her sinews, crack'd her bones; He munch'd her heart, he quaff'd her gore, And up her lights and liver tore.[41]!!!!

Grandmummy's bed he straight got in, Her night-cap tied beneath his chin; And, waiting for his destin'd prey, All snug between the sheets he lay.

Now at the door a voice heard he, Which cried ... "I've brought you custards three; Oh! let me in, grandmummy good, For I am small red riding hood."

"The bobbin pull (the wolf king cried), The door will then fly open wide."

The little dear the bobbin drew, And straight the door wide open flew.[42]

She plac'd the custards on the floor, And sigh'd ... "I wish I'd brought you _four_.[43]

I'm very tir'd, dear grandmummie; Oh! may I come to bed to thee?"

"Oh come! (the wolf king softly cried), And lie, my sweet one, by my side:"

Ah! little thought the child so gay The cruel wolf king near her lay!

"Oh! tell me, tell me, granny dear, Why does your _voice_ so gruff appear?"

"Oh! hush, sweetheart (the wolf king said), I've got a small cold in my head!"

"Oh! tell me, grandmummie so kind, Why you've a _tail_ grows out _behind_?"

"Oh! hush thee, hush thee, pretty dear, My pincus.h.i.+on I hang on there!"

"Why do your _eyes_ so glare on me?"

"They are your pretty face to see."

"Why do your _ears_ so long appear?"

"They are your pretty voice to hear."

"Oh! tell me, granny, why to-night Your teeth appear so long and white?"[44]

Then, growling, cried the wolf so grim, "They are to tear you limb from limb!"

His hungry teeth the wolf king gnash'd, His sparkling eyes with fury flash'd, He op'd his jaws all sprent with blood, And fell on small red riding hood.

He tore her bowels out one and two, "Little maid, I will eat you!"

But when he tore out three and four, The little maid she was no more!

Take warning hence, ye children fair; Of wolves' insidious arts beware; And, as you pa.s.s each lonely wood, Ah! think of small red riding hood!

With custards sent, nor loiter slow, Nor gather blue bells as you go; Get not to bed with grandmummie, Lest she a ravenous wolf should be!

_Port Folio_, II-173, June 5, 1802, Phila.

[Footnote 41: This stanza is borrowed from an affecting and sanguinary description in a German ballad by Professor Von Spluttbach, called Skulth den Balch, or Sour Mthltz; in English, as far as a translation can convey an idea of the horror of the original, "The b.l.o.o.d.y Banquet, or the Gulph of Ghosts!!!" a very terrible and meritorious production.]

[Footnote 42: Repet.i.tion is the soul of ballad writing.]

[Footnote 43: The reader will do my heroine the justice to remember that she set out with only _three_, consequently her wish that another had been added, arose from a motive purely affectionate and characteristic. This benevolent trait, ingeniously insinuated, excites the interest of the reader for her, and adds horror to the catastrophe.]

[Footnote 44: Our heroine is here lost in _double_ astonishment; not only the _length_, but the _whiteness_ of her grandmother's teeth excites her wonder and suspicion.]

The following piece of singular and original composition was found amongst the papers of an old Dutchman, in Albany. The ma.n.u.script has suffered considerably from the tooth of time, and from several marks of antiquity about it, it may be safely inferred, that a century at least has elapsed since it was written. It is hardly necessary to inform the judicious reader, that this piece is no other than a billet doux, or love epistle, sent by some Dutch swain in the country, to the girl of his heart, who, it seems, had gone to reside some time in the city of Albany.

HANS LETTER TO NOTCHIE.

Mine Cot, vat vose does Hans se feel, Vile lufly Notchie is avay, Vat is de matter, vat de deel, Does make you zo vorever stay.

I sleep none in de day, nor nite, Mit such impashuns I duz burn, Zo, when de sh.e.l.l drake vings hur vlite, Pore Frow she mornes vor his return.

Zo owls will hoot, und cats will mew, Und dogs will howl; und storms will ney, Und zhall not I more anguish sho, Vile lufly Notchie is avay.

A shacket I has lately bot, Und brokenbrooks zo zoft as zilk, Stripd as your under petticote, Und vite as any b.u.t.termilk.

Make hase, mine dere, und quikly c.u.m, Mine vaders goin to di, you zee, Und Yacups cot his viddle home, Und we shall haf a daring bee.

I feres zum Yanky vull uv art, More cunnin, as de ferry dele, Vill git away yorn little hart, Zo as da will our horshes stele.