Gaudeamus! Humorous Poems Part 11

NUMBER EIGHT.

(IN THE COURT OF HOLLAND IN HEIDELBERG.)

Zwei Schatten seh' ich schweben In spater, spater 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-c.o.c.k-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, Schutt't Wein oben drauf aus guldnem Gefa.s.s Und nennt das gelehrt: Ernahrungsprocess.

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 schmuckte, Fahre wohl! dein Amt ist aus, Ach auch Dich, die mich entzuckte, 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 p.a.w.ned all things worth p.a.w.ning, 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 h.o.a.rded, 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 s.h.i.+ver; My last breeches,--fare ye well!

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