Breitmann in Rome

Deres lighds oopon de Appian,     Dey shine de road entlang;     Und from ein hundert tombs dere brumms     A wild Lateinisch song;     It rings from Neros goldnen haus;     Evoe! here he coom!     Fly oud, ye mnads, from your craves!     Hans Breitmanns got to Rome!     For vhile de lamp holts oud to purn,     Or von goot shpark ish dere,     Deres hope for all of dem whose lives     Ish doun in Lempri?re.     Von real, shenuine heathen     Is coom at last to home;     Ye shleepin gotts, lift oop your hets     Hans Breitmann lifes in Rome!     Silenus mit der Hercules,     Dere-to der Maias sohn,     Ish all unite in Breitmann     To make a stunnin one.     Frau Venus mit de Bacchanals     Ist shmile to see him come;     De Vesta only toorn her pack     Vhen Breitmann kit to Rome.     He vented to de Vacuum,     Vhere de Bope ish keep his bulls;     Boot couldnt vind dem, dough he heardt     Dat all de blace vas fools.     Dere ish here and dere some ochsen,     Right manivest I see;     Boot de bools all comes from Irish priests,     Said Breitemann, said he.     Und goin py de Vacuum,     Und passin troo de yard;     Mein Gott! how vas he stoomple, vhen     He see der Schweitzer guard,     Mit efery kinds of colors tresst,     Like shtreamers in de van.     Hans Wurst ist stets ein Deutscher gwest,     Das marked der Breitemann.     Und dus replied an guartsmann:     I shoys to see you here:     Ich bin dem Bapst sei Laibgaertner.     Dazu a halberthier.     Dis purpur kleid of yellow-plue     Vas made, ash I hafe heard,     Py von Hans Michel Angelo,     Der tailor of our guard.     Vere shoost von hoondert dirty strong,     Ve list for twenty year;     De serfice ist not pad, boot dis     Verdamm das Rmisch bier!     For ven mit birra gazzosa     A maiden fills my glass,     She might ash vell gife gift ash say     Feinslieb, ich schenk dir dass!     Und dus rebly der Breitmann:     Un Tedesco Italianazato,     Ein Deutscher toorned Italian, ish     Il diavolo in carnato.     Your clothes are like infernal flames,     Dey burn my fery soul;     Boot to-night well trink togedder nun     Lieblandsmann lebe wohl!     At de Sherman artisds festa,     Vhere all vas pright und fair,     Tvas fairer und more prighterfull     Vhen Breitmann enter dere.     Und der vaiters in de Greco     (So long he trinked und sot)     Vas called him LUbbriacone     Tvas de name der Breitmann got.     He saw a veller in de shtreet,     Vot sell some friction-matches;     De kind dey call Infallible,     For dey blazes ven you scratches.     Dey dragged him off to brison,     Und tied him mit a rope;     For in Rome deres nix Infallible,     Dey said, excebt de Bope.     Hans see de crate Prometheus,     In Corsinis gallery hang;     He tought apout de matches,     Und it made his heart go bang.     Its risk to carry light apout,     Too cheap for efery man;     How de Lucifers is fallen!     Ita dixit Breitmann.     He got among de Bopes Zouaves,     Dey trinked from morn to night;     Den frolicked colle belle     Ontil de shky crew pright.     It blease der Breitmann vonderfool,     And dus he often say:     Zouaviter in modo ish     Der real Roman way.     Boot oh, his heart burned vild mit fire,     His eyes gefilled mit tears,     At de gotts in efery bilder saal,     Mit goats legs, tails, und ears.     Und he sopped Ach liebes Deutschland,     Bist here on every hand?     Was machst du Mephistophels     So weit im Wlschen Land?     Boot de wood-nymphs boorst out laughin,     Der Garten-gott dere to,     Und sait Oldt Hans! vile youre apout     Ve nefer can look blue.     Den Pan blay on his Syrinx,     To de tune of Mary Blane,     Dont gry pecause vere out of town,     Vere coming pack again.     Von day you got de yolk und vhite,     De next day only shells;     Von day dey holts a council,     Und de next day someding else!     Ids bopes und kings, und gotts and dings,     Oopon dis eartly ball;     Boot for me ids all von frolic,     Und a high oldt carnival!     Rise oop, dou Odin-trafeler,     Und toorn dee to de Nort,     Wherefrom, as Bible dells dee,     Crate efil shall come fort.     Dere is mutterins in Ravenna,     Und ere long derell come a turn,     A real hell-bender from de land     Of Dieterich von Bern.     Und ven der Breitmanns prototype,     Der Fictoor Manuel,     Cooms tromplin, tromplin troo de fern,     To give dis coontry hell.     Und ven in La Comarca,     Der is shtorm all in de air,     Dy Gotts vill gife dee vork, mein Sohn,     Hans Breitmann shall be dere!     For a yar will nod be ofer     Pefore de Frntsch will run,     Und de game at last be ented,     Und Italy pe won.     Und denn in roarin battle,     For hishtory so grand,     Dy bannerll lead de Uhlan spears,     All in de Frankenland.