Breitmann in Forty-Eight

Dere woned once a studente,     All in der Stadt Paris,     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 ladys het;     Shed 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 beoples 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 beoples 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,     Oer shots und cries of fear,     Loud booming like a dragons 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 donnes.     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 Knigs 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 libert pour la Pologne!     Likevise pour lItalie!     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 Frntschmen 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 oer 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 Breitmanns hand     Vitch now dese verses write.