The First Edition of Breitmann - Showing How and Why It Was That It Never Appeared

Uns ist in alten Maeren     wunders viel geseit     Von Helden lobebaeren,     von grosser Arebeit.     Von Festen und Hochzeiten,     von Weinen und Klagen,     Von kuehnen Recken Streiten,     mht Ihr nun Wunder hren sagen.     Der Nibelungen Lied.     DO oos, in anciend shdory,     Crate voonders ish peen told     Of lapors fool of glory,     Of heroes bluff und bold;     Of high oldt times a-kitin,     Of howlin und of tears,     Of kissin and of vightin,     All dis we likes to hears.     Dere growed once dimes in Schwaben,     Since fifty years pegan,     An shild of decend elders,     His name Hans Breitemann.     De gross adfentures dat he had,     If you will only look,     Ish all bescribed so truly     In dis fore-lyin book.     Und allaweil dese lieder     Vere goin troo his het,     De writer lay von Sonntay     a-shleepin in his bett;     Vhen, lo! a yellow bigeon     Coom to him in a dream,     De same dat Mr. Barnum     Vonce had in his Musum.     Und dus out-shprach de bigeon:     If you should brint de songs     Or oder dings of Breitmann     Vhich to dem on-belongs,     Dey will tread de road of Sturm and Drang,     Die wile es mhte leben,     Und be mis-geborn in pattle     To dis fate ish it ergeben.     Und dus rebly de dreamer:     If on de ice it shlip,     Denn led id dake ids shanses,     Rip Sam, und let er rip!     Dou sayst id vill pe sturmy:     Vot sturmy ish, ish crand,     Crates heroes ish de beoples     In Uncle Samuels land.     Du bist ein rechter Gelbschnabel,     O golden bigeon mine,     Und Ill fighdt id on dis summer,     If id dakes me all dis line.     Full liddle ish de discount,     Oopon de Yankee peeps.     Go to hell! exglaim de bigeon;     Foreby vas all mine shleeps.     Dere vent to Sout Carolina     A shentleman who dinked,     Dat te pallads of der Breitmann     Should papered pe und inked.     Und dat he vouldt fixed de brintin     Before de writer know:     Dis make to many a brinter,     Fool many a bitter woe.     All in de down of Charleston,     A druckerei he found,     Where dey cut de copy into takes     Und sorted it around.     Und all vas goot peginnen,     For no man heeded mooch.     Dat half de jours vas Mericans     Und half of dem vas Dutch.     Und vorser shtill, anoder half     Had vorn de Federal plue,     Vhile de anti-half in Davis grey     Had peen Confeterates true.     Great Himmel! vot a shindy     Vas shdarted in de crowd,     Vhen some von read Hans Breitmann,     His Barty all aloud!     Und von goot-nadured Yankee,     He schwear id vos a shame,     To dell soosh lies on Dutchmen,     Und make of dem a game.     Boot dis make mad Fritz Luder,     Und he schwear dis treat of Hans,     Vos shoost so goot a barty     Ash any oder mans.     Und dat nodings vas so looscious     In all dis eartly shpeer,     Ash a quart mug fool of sauer-kraut,     Mit a plate of lager-bier.     Dat de Yankee might pe tam mit himself,     For he, der Fritz, hafe peen,     In many soosh a barty     Und all dose dings hafe seen.     All mad oopsproong de Yankee,     Mit all his passion ripe;     Und vired at Fritz mit de shootin-shtick,     Vheremit he vas fixin type.     It hit him on de occupit,     Und laid him on de floor;     For many a long day afder     I ween his het was sore.     Dis roused Piet Weiser der Pfaelzer,     Who vas quick to act und dink;     He helt in hand a roller     Vheremit he vas rollin ink.     Und he dake his broof py shtrikin     Der Merican top of his het,     Und make soosh a vine impression,     Dat he left de veller for deat.     Allaweil dese dings oonfolded,     Dere vas rows of anoder kind,     Und drople in de wigwam     Enough to trife dem plind.     Und a crate six-vooted Soudern man     Vot hafe vorked on a Refiew,     Shvear he hope to Gott he mighd pie de forms     If de Breitmanns book warnt true.     For de Sout vas ploundered derriple,     Und in dat darksome hour     He hafe lossed a yallow-pine maiden,     Of all de land de vlower.     Bright gold doublones a hoondered     For her hed gladly bay     Ash soon ash a thrip for a ginger-cake,     Und deem it cheap dat day.     To him antworded a Yorker     Who shoomp den dimes de boun-ti-ee:     (De only dings he lossed in de war     Was a sense of broperty.)     Says he, Votefer you hafe dropped     Some oder shap hafe get,     Und de yallow-pine liked him petter ash you,     On dat it is safe to bet!     Dead pale pecame dat Soudern brave,     He tidnt so moosh as yell,     Boot he drop right on to de Yorker,     Und mit von lick bust his shell.     Denn out he flashed his pig-sticker,     Und mit looks of drementous gloom,     Rooshed vildly in de pattle     Dat vas ragin round de room.     Boot in angulo, in de corner     Anoder quarrel vas grow     Twix a Boston shap mit a Londoner;     Und de row ish gekommen so:     De Yankee say dat de H-u-mor     Of soosh writin vas less dan small,     Dough it maket de beoples laughen,     Boot dat vas only all.     Denn a Deutscher say, by Donner!     Dat soosh a baradox     Vould leafe no hope for writers     In all Pandoras bnder box.     Twas like de sayin dat Heine     Hafe no witz in him goot or bad,     Boot he only kept sayin witty dings     To make beoples pelieve he had.     Denn de oder veller be-headed     Dat dere vas not a shbark of foon     In de pad spelt lieds when you lead dem     Into Englisch correctly done:     Den a Proof Sheet veller respondered,     For he dink de dings vas hard,     Dat ish shoost like de goot oldt lady     Ash vent to hear Artemus Ward.     Und say it vas shames de beoples     Vas laugh demselfs most tead     At de boor young veller lecturin,     Vhen he tidnt know vot he said.     Hereauf de Yankee answered,     Gaul dern it: Shtop your fuss!     And all de crowd togeder     Go slap in a grand plug-muss.     De Yankee shlog de Proof Sheet     Soosh an awfool smock on de face,     Dat he shvell right oop like a poonkin     Mit a sense of his tisgrace;     Boot der Deutscher boosted an ink-keg     On dop of de oders hair:     It vly troo de air like a boomshell denn     Mine Gotts! Vot a sighdt vas dere!     Denn ofer all de shapel     Vierce war vas ragin loose;     Fool many a vighten brinter     Got well ge-gooked his goose.     Fool many a nose mit fisten,     I ween was padly scrouged;     Fool many an eye pright gleamin     Vas ploody out-gegouged.     D wart fgehouwen,     Dere vas hewin off of pones;     D hrte man darinne     Man heardt soosh treadful croans.     Jach waren d die Geste,     De row vas rough and tough,     Genuoge sluogen wunden     Dere vas plooty wounds enough.     De souls of anciend brinters     From Himmel look down oopon,     Und allowed dat in a chapel     Dere was nefer soosh carryins on.     Dere was Lorenz Coster mit Gutemberg,     Und Scheffer mit der Fust,     Und Sweynheim mit Pannartz trop deers,     Oopon dis teufels dust.     Dere vas Yankee jours extincted     Who lay upon de vloor,     Dere vas Soudern rebs destructed,     Who vouldt nefer Jeff no more.     Ash deir souls rise oop to Heafen,     Dey heardt de oldt brinters calls,     Und Gutemberg gifed dem all a kick     Ash he histed dem ofer de walls.     Dat ish de vay dese Ballads     Foorst vere crooshed in ploot and shdorm,     Fool many a day moost bass afay     Pefore dey dook dis form.     De copy flootered oer de preasts     Of heroes lyin todt,     Dis vas de dire peginnin     Das war des Breitmanns Noth.     Dis song in Philadelphia     Long dimes ago pegun,     In Paris vas gondinued, und     In Dresden ist full-done.     If any toubt apout de facts,     In nople minds ish grew,     Let dem ashk Carl Benson Bristed,     He knows id all ish drue.     Und now, dese Breitmann shdories     In gebrindt in many a lant,     Sogar in far Australia     Deyre gestohlen und bekannt:     Geh hin mein Puch in alle Welt     Steh auss was dir kompt zu!     Man beysse Dich, man reysse Dich     Nur dass man mir nichts thu!