Breitmanns Going to Church.

Vides igitur, Collega carissime, visitationem canonicam esse rem haud ita periculosam, sed valde amoenam, si modo vinum, groggio et cibi praesto sunt.     - Novissimae Epistolae Obscurorum Virorum, Berolini F. Berggold, 1869. Epistola xxiii., p. 63.     Dvas near de state of Nashfille,     In de town of Tennessee,     Der Breitmann vonce vas quarderd     Mit all his cavallrie.     Der Sheneral kept him glose in gamp,     He vouldnt let dem go;     Dey couldnt shdeal de first plack hen,     Or make de red cock crow.     Und virst der Breitmann vildly shmiled,     Und denn he madly shvore;     Crate hl, mit shpoons und shinsherbread,     Can dis pe makin war?     Verdammt pe all der discipline!     Verdammt der Shenerl!     Vere I vonce on de road, his will,     Vere wurst mir und egl.     Oh vhere ish all de plazin roofs     Dat claddened vonce mine eyes?     Und vhere de crand plantaschions     Vhere ve gaddered many a brize?     Und vhere de plasted shpies ve hung     A howlin loud mit fear?     Und vhere de rascal push-whackers     Ve shashed like vritened deer?     De roofs are shtandin fast and firm     Mit repels blottin oonder;     De crand blantaschions lie round loose     For Morgans men to ploonder!     De shpies go valkin out und in,     Ash sassy ash can pe;     Und in de voods de push-whackers     Are makin foon of me!     Oh vere I on my schimmel grey     Mein sabre in mein hand,     Dey should drack me py de ruins     Of de houses troo de land.     Dey should drack me py de puzzards     High sailen ofer head,     A vollowin der Breitmanns trail     To claw de repel dead.     Outspoke der bold Von Stossenheim,     Who had thories of Gott:     O Breitmann, dis ish shoodgement on     De vays dat you hafe trot.     You only lifes to joy yourself,     Yet you, yourself moost say,     Dat self-defelopment requires     De rligis Ide.     Dey sat dem down and argued id,     Like Deutschers vree from fear,     Dill dey schmoke ten pounds of knaster,     Und drinked drei fass of bier.     Der Breitmann go py Schopenhauer,     Boot Veit he had him denn;     For he dook him on de angles     Of de moral oxygen.     Der Breitmann low, dat pentence,     Ish known in efery glime,     Und dat to grin und bear it     Vas healty und soopline.     For mine Sout German Catolicks,     Id vas pe goot, I know;     Likevise dem Nordland Luterans,     If vonce to shoorsh dey go.     Boot how vas id mit oders     Who dinks philosophie?     I dont begreif de matter,     Said Stossenheim: Denn see.     De more dat shoorsh disgoostet you,     Und make despise und bain,     De crater merid ish to go,     Und de crater ish your gain.     I know a liddle shoorsh mineself,     Oopon de Bole Jack road:     (De rebs vonce shot dree Federals dere,     Ash into shoorsh dey goed.)     Dere you might make a bilcrimage,     Und do id in a tay:     Gott only knows vot dings you mighdt     Bick oop, oopon de vay.     Denn oop dere shpoke a contrapand,     Vas at de tent ids toor     Deres twenty barls of whiskey, hid,     In dat tabernacle, shore.     A rebel he done gone and put     It in de cellar, true,     No libin man dat secret knows,     Cept only me an you.     Der Stossenheim, he grossed himself,     Und knelt peside de fence,     Und gried: O Coptain Breitmannn, see,     Die finger Providence.     Der Breitmann droed his hat afay,     Says he, Pet hit or miss,     Ife heard of miragles pefore,     Boot none so hunk ash dis.     Wohlauf mine pully cafaliers,     Vell ride to shoorsh to-day,     Each man ash hasnt cot a horse     Moost shteal von, rite afay.     Deres a raw, green corps from Michigan,     Mit horses on de loose,     You men ash vants some hoof-irons,     Look out and crip deir shoes.     All brooshed und fixed, de cavallrie,     Rode out py moonen shine,     De cotton fields in shimmerin light,     Lay white as elfenbein.     Dey heard a shot close py Lavergne,     Und men who rode afay,     In de road a-velterin his his ploot,     A Federal picket lay.     Und all dat he hafe dimes to say,     Vhile shtandin at my post,     De guerillas got first shot at me,     Und so gafe oop de ghost.     Denn a contrapand, who helt his head,     Said: Sah dose grillers all     Is only half a mile from hyar,     A dancin at a ball.     Der Breitmann shpoke and brummed it out     Ash if his heart tid schvell:     Ill gife dem music at dat pall     Vill tantz dem into hell.     Hei! arrow-fast a teufels ride!     De plack man led de vay,     Dey reach de house dey see de lights     Dey heard de fiddle blay.     Dey nefer vaited for a word     Boot galloped from de gloom,     Und, bang! a hoonderd carpine shots     Dey fired indo de room.     Oop vent de groans of vounded men,     De fittlin died away:     Boot some of dem vere tead pefore     De music ceased to blay.     Denn crack und smack coom scotterin shots     Troo vindow und troo door,     Boot bang and clang de Germans gife     Anoder volley more.     Dere let em shlide. Right file to shoorsh!     Aloudt de orders ran.     I kess I paid dem for dat shot,     Shpeak grim der Breitemann.     All rosen red de mornin fair     Shone gaily oer de hill,     A violet plue de shky crew teep     In rifer, pond, und rill;     All cloudy grey de limeshtone rocks     Coom oop troo dimmerin wood;     All shnowy vite in mornin light     De shoorsh pefore dem shtood.     Now loudet vell de organ, oop,     To drill mit solemn fear;     Und ring also dat Lumpenglock     To pring de beoples here.     Und if it prings guerillas down,     Vell gife dem, py de Lord,     De low-mass of de sabre, and     De high-mass of de cord.     Du, Eberl aus Freiburg,     Du bist ein Musikant,     Top-sawyer on de counterpoint     Und buster in discnt,     To dee de soul of musik     All innerly ish known,     Du canst mit might fullenden     De art of orgel-ton.     Derefore, a Miserre     Vill dou, be-ghostet, spiel,     Und vake be-raised, yearnin,     Also a holy feel:     Pe referent, men rememper     Dis ish a Gotteshaus     Du Conrad go along de aisles     Und schenk de whiskey aus!:     Dey blay crate dings from Mozart,     Beethoven, und Mehul     Mit chorals of Sebastian Bach     Soopline und peaudiful.     Der Breitmann feel like holy saints,     De tears roon down his fuss;     Und he sopped out, got verdammich dis     Ist wahres Kunstgenuss!     Der Eberl blayed oop so high,     He maket de rafters ring;     Der Eberl blayed lower, und     Ve heardt der Breitmann sing     Like a dronin wind in piney woods     Like a nightly moanin sea:     Ash de dinked on Sonntags long agone     Vhen a poy in Germany.     Und louder und mit louder tone     High oop de orgel blowed,     Und plentifuller efer yet     Around de whiskey goed.     Dey singed ash if mit singin, dey     Might indo Himmel win:     I dink in all dis land soosh shprees     Ash yet hafe nefer peen.     Vhen in de Abendsonnenschein,     Mit doost-clouds troo de door,     All plack ash night in golden lighdt     Der shtood ein schwartzer Mohr,     Dat contrapand so wild und weh,     Mit eye-palls glaring roun,     Who cried For Gotts sake, hoory oop!     De reps ish gomin down!     Und while he yet was shpeakin,     A far-off soundt pegan,     Down rollin from de moundain     Of many a ridersmann.     Und vhile de waves of musik     Vere rollin oer deir heads,     Dey heard a foice a schkreemin,     Pile out of thar, you Feds!     For we uns ar a comin     For to guv to you uns fits,     And knock you into brimstun     And blast you all to bits     Boot ere it done ids shpeakin,     Der vas order in de band,     Ash Breitmann, mit an awfool stim     Out-dondered his gommand.     Und ash fisch-hawk at a mackarel     Doth make a splurgin flung,     Und ash eagles dab de fish-hawks     Ash if de gods vere young,     So from all de doors and vindows,     Like shpiders down deir webs     De Dootch went at deir horses,     Und de horses at de rebs.     Crate shplendors of de treadful     Vere in dat pattle rush,     Crate vights mit swords und carpine,     Py efery fence and bush.     Ash panters vight mit crislies     In famished morder fits     For de rebs vere mad ash boison,     Und de Dootch vere droonk ash blitz.     Yet vild ash vas de pattle,     So quickly vas it oer,     O, vhy moost I forefer     Pestain mine page mit gore?     Py liddle und py liddle     Dey drawed demselfs afay,     Oft toornin round to vighten     Like boofaloes at bay.     De scatterin shots grew fewer,     De scatterin gries more shlow,     Und furder troo de forest     Ve heard dem vainter grow.     Ve gife von shout Victoria!     Und denn der Breitmann said,     Ash he wiped his ploody sabre:     Now, poys, count oop your dead!     Oh small had been our shoutin     For shoy, if ve had known     Dat der Stossenheim im oaken wald,     Lay dyin all alone.     Vhile his oldt vhite horse mit droopin het     Look dumbly on him doun,     Ash if he dinked, Vy lyest dou here     Vhile fightins goin on?     Und dreams coom oer de soldier     Slow dyin on de eart;     Of a schloss afar in Baden,     Of his mutter, und nople birt!     Of poverty and sorrow,     Vhich drofe him like de wind,     Und he sighed, Ach weh for de lofed ones,     Who wait so far pehind!     Wohl auf, my soul oer de moundains!     Wohl auf well ofer de sea!     Deres a frau dat sits in de Odenwald     Und shpins, und dinks of me.     Deres a shild ash blays in de greenin grass,     Und sings a liddle hymn,     Und learns to shpeak a faders name     Dat she nefer will shpeak to him.     But mordal life ends shortly     Und Heafens life is long:-     Wo bist du Breitmann? glaubes     Gott suffers noding wrong.     Now I die like a Christian soldier,     My head oopon my sword:     In nomine Domini!     Vas Stossenheim his word.     O, dere vas bitter wailen     Vhen Stossenheim vas found.     Efen from dose dere lyin     Fast dyin on de ground.     Boot time vas short for vaiten,     De shades vere gadderin dim:     Und I nefer shall forget it,     De hour ve puried him.     De tramp of horse und soldiers     Vas all de funeral knell;     De ring of sporn und carpine     Vas all de sacrin bell.     Mit hoontin knife und sabre     Dey digged de grave a span,     From German eyes blue gleamin     De holy water ran.     Mit moss-grown shticks und bark-thong     De plessed cross ve made,     Und put it vhere de soldiers head     Towards Germany vas laid.     Dat grave is lost mit dead leafs,     De cross is goned afay:     Boot Gott will find der reiter     Oopon de Youngest Day.     Und dinkin of de fightin,     Und dinkin of de dead,     Und dinkin of de organ,     To Nashville, Breitmann led     Boot long dat rough oldt Hanserl     Vas earnsthaft, grim und kalt,     Shtill dinkin oer de hearts friend,     Hed left im gruenen wald.     De verses of dis boem     In Heidelberg I write;     De night is dark around me,     De shtars apove are bright.     Studenten in den Gassen     Make singen many a song;     Ach Faderland! wie bist du weit!     Ach Zeit! wie bist du lang!