The Breitmann Ballads - BestLightNovel.com
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Und madder und wilder, All whirlin around, Vent Hans mit de maiden In Baccha.n.a.l bound.
She helt to his peard, Und dey gissed as if mad; I tont d.i.n.k dat efer Vas dimes like dey had.
Boot calm in de hall, Ever calm on de floor, Was a row of still guests Dat wouldn't tantz nefermore.
Mit plood shtreams black winding, Der lord mit his men, When der Youngest Day cooms Hans may meet dem acain.
Hoorah for der Uhlan, So rash und so wild!
Hoorah for der Uhlan, Der teufel's own child!- Dis ish "Breitmann's Last Barty,"
Dey'll sing it for years; De lords of de lanzes, De sons of de speers.
For dey frighten de c.o.o.ntry, Dey ploonder de town; Und when dey are oop De Franzosen go down; For pefore de wild Nors.e.m.e.n Weak Southrons moost flee, Ab ira Normannorum Libera nos Domine!
EUROPE.
BREITMANN IN PARIS.
(1869.)
"Recessit in Franciam."
"Et affectu pectoris, Et toto gestu corporis, Et scholares maxime, Qui festa colunt optime."
- Carmina Burana, 13th century.
DER teufel's los in Bal Mabille, Dere's h.e.l.l-fire in de air, De fiddlers can't blay noding else Boot Orphee aux Enfers: Vot makes de beoples howl mit shoy?
Da capo - Bravo! - bis!!
It's a Deutscher aus Amerika: Hans Breitmann in Paris.
Dere's silber toughts vot might hafe peen, Dere's golden deeds vot must: Der Hans ish come to Frankenland On one eternal bust.
Der same old rowdy Argonaut Vot hoont de same oldt vleece, A hafin all de foon dere ish- Der Breitmann in Paris.
Mit a gal on eider shoulder A holdin py his beard, He tantz de Cancan, sacrament!
Dill all das Volk vas skeered.
Like a roarin hippopatamos, Mit a kangarunic shoomp, Dey feared he'd smash de Catacombs, Each dime der Breitmann b.u.mp.
De pretty liddle cocodettes Lofe efery dings ish new, "D'ou vient il donc ce grand M'sieu?
O sacre nom de Dieu!"
In fain dey kicks deir veet on high, And sky like vlyin geese, Dey can not kick de hat afay From Breitmann in Paris.
O vhere vas id der Breitmann life?
Oopon de Rond Point gay, Vot shdreet lie shoost pehind his house?
La rue de Rabelais.
Aroundt de corner Harper's shtands Vhere Yankee drinks dey mill, Vhile shdraight ahet, agross de shdreet, Der lies de Bal Mabille.
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 b.a.l.l.s, 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 pet.i.te 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.
