Breitmann In Holland - Scheveningen, or de Maidens Coorse

Oldt Flmisch.     Het vas Mijn Heer van Torenborg,     Ride oud oopon de sand,     Und vait to hear a paardeken;     Coom tromplin from de land.     He vaited vhen de boeren volk     Vent oud oopon de plain,     He vaited dill de veary crows     Flew nestwarts home acain.     He vaited ash de wild fox vaits     In long-some hoonger noth,     He vaited dill de flitterin bats     Vere plack on Abendroth.     Ids woe to watch for taily bread     Or bide forgotten call,     Boot oh, to vait for heartsen lofe     Ish veariest of dem all.     O dat ish not mine laitys prooch     Shoost now so star-like shined,     O dat ish not mine laitys 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     Vitchll 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 eer nights plack hat toorned to red     Or eer 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 lofes nose!     Oh vot ish dis I trots opon?     Ids 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 noblest 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,     Vhereer deir vootshteps vall,     Mit his schwesters und his broders,     De teufel rake dem all!     May afery cuss dat eer 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 shifer,     Und gry oud For Gotts sake shdop!     Deres a cerdain lot of shwearin,     Vitch anger alvays crafes;     Boot spite like dats enof to pring     De tead men from deir craves.     I cant lie here no longer,     Und hear soosh pizen pain;     Und since youve shtirred me out, I kess     Ill 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 levst du nock!     Ach ja du aintst nod tead yet!     Deres 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-shell so wildly     She digged her lofer out.     Und now dourt in free air, lofe!     Who warst shoost now in sand!     Dere vasnt 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 glucklichs jahr.