Students’ Songs
Old Assyrian-Jonah
IN the Black Whale at Ascalon
A man drank day by day,
Till, stiff as any broom-handle
Upon the floor he lay.
In the Black Whale at Ascalon
The landlord said: “I say,
He’s drinking of my date-juice wine
Much more than he can pay!”
In the Black Whale at Ascalon
The waiters brought the bill,
In arrow-heads on six broad tiles,
To him who thus did swill.
In the Black Whale at Ascalon
The guest cried out: “O woe!
I spent in the Lamb at Nineveh
My money long ago!”
In the Black Whale at Ascalon
The clock struck half-past four,
When the Nubian porter he did pitch
The stranger from the door.
In the Black Whale at Ascalon
No prophet hath renown;
And he who there would drink in peace
Must pay his money down.
Heinz von Stein
Joseph Victor Scheffel.
Out rode from his wild, dark castle,
The terrible Heinz von Stein:
He came to the door of a tavern
And gazed at the swinging sign.
He sat himself down at a table,
And growled for a bottle of wine;
Up came, with a flask and a corkscrew,
A maiden of beauty divine.
Then, seized with a deep love-longing,
He uttered, “Oh, damosell mine,
Suppose you just give a few kisses
To the valorous Rotter von Stein.”
But she answered, “The kissing business
Is entirely out of my line;
And I certainly will not begin it
On a countenance ugly as thine.”
Oh, then the bold knight was angry,
And he cursed both coarse and fine;
And asked: “How much is the swindle
For your sour and nasty wine?”
And fiercely he rode to the castle,
And sat himself down to dine;
And this is the terrible legend
Of the terrible Heinz von Stein.
Brigand Song
Air—Von Weber’s “Dernière Pensée.”
’G giebt kein schönres Leben
Als das Rauberleben
In dem düstern, düstern Wald.
There’s no life is nobbier
Than to be a robbier
In the gloomy, gloomy, gloomy wood.
Always blood a-drinkin’,
Killin’ folks like winkin’,
Little hinfants murderin’ all we could.
Comes a carriage glidin’,
Or a feller ridin’,
Or a tinker travellin’ with his cram,
Then each jovial rover
Holloas out, “Shell over!
For your life we do not care a d—n!”
A Farthing and a Sixpence
A farthing and a sixpence,
And both of them were mine;
The farthing went for water,
And the sixpence went for wine.
The landlord and his daughter
Cry, both of them, “Oh woe!”
The landlord when I’m coming,
And the daughter when I go.
My shoes are all in pieces,
My boots are torn, d’ye see;
And yonder, on the hedges,
The birds are singing free.
And if there were no taverns,
I’d never wish to roam;
And no bung-hole in the barrel,
Then I couldn’t drink at home.
Count Albert von Schlippenbach.
The Teutoburger Battle
When the Romans, rashly roving,
Into Germany were roving,
First of all—to flourish, partial—
Rode ’mid trumps the great field-martial,
Sir Quintilius Varus.
But in the Teutoburgian forest
How the north wind blew and chor-rused;
Ravens flying through the air,
And there was a perfume there
As of blood and corpses.
All at once, in sock and buskins,
Out came rushing the Cheruskins
Howling, “Gott and Vaterland!”
They went in with sword in hand
Against the Roman legions.
Ah, it was an awful slaughter,
And the cohorts ran like water;
But of all the foe that day
The horsemen only got away,
Because they were on horseback!
O Quintilius! wretched general,
Knowest thou not that such our men are all?
In a swamp he fell—how shocking!
Lost two boots, a left-hand stocking,
And, besides, was smothered.
Then, with his temper growing wusser,
Said to Centurion Titiusser,
“Pull your sword out—never mind,
And bore me through with it behind,
Since the game is busted.”
Scaevolo, of law a student,
Fine young fellow—but imprudent
As a youth of tender years,
Served among the volunteers—
He was also captured.
E’en his hoped-for death was baffled,
For ere they got him to the scaffold
He was stabbed quite unaware,
And nailed fast en derrière
To his Corpus Juris.
When this forest fight was over,
Herman rubbed his hands in clover;
And to do the thing up right,
The Cheruscian did invite
To a first-rate breakfast.
But in Rome the wretched varmints
Went to purchase mourning garments;
Just as they had tapped a puncheon,
And Augustus sat at luncheon,
Came the mournful story.
And the tidings so provoked him,
That a peacock leg half choked him,
And he cried—beyond control—
“Varus, Varus! d—n your soul!
Redde legiones!”
His German slave, Hans Schmidt be-christened,
Who in the corner stood and listened,
Remarked, “Der Teufel take me wenn
He efer kits dose droops acain,
For teat men ish not lifin.”
Now, in honour of the story,
A monument they’ll raise for glory.
As for pedestal—they’ve done it;
But who’ll pay for a statue on it
Heaven alone can tell us.
J. V. Scheffel.
The Last Pair of Breeches
Air—“’Tis the last Rose of Summer.”
’Tis my la-a-st pair of bre-e-eches
Le-e-ft sa-a-dly a-lone;
Ah—and she too with her riches,
With another hence has gone.
Oh, they seemed in one piece knitted,
Such a pair is seldom matched;
Winter buckskin, how they fitted!
Large plaid pattern, never patched!
Strutting proudly as a turkey,
With those breeks I first sailed in;
In my pocket to the door-key
Rang such lots of lovely tin.
Ah, we fall as we have risen—
Soon no specie showed its face;
And the Heidelberg town-prison
Is a dark and silent place.
Soon I pawned all things worth pawning,—
Dress-coat, frock, and mantle light.
You too, now, ere morrow’s dawning,
My last trousers, good—good-night!
Day of trial, with what sorrow
Do I feel thy pain at last;
Nothing earthly bides the morrow,
And the pledge-laws travel fast.
All must go, though strictly hoarded,
Oh, last trousers, last of mine!
Elkan Levi, gloomy, sordid,
Old clo’,—take them, they are thine!
Boots!—of all my friends the truest,
Come and prop my suffering head;
But one pint, and that of newest,
May’st thou bring—enough is said!
Then abed, from this sad hour,
I’ll not rise, though all should ring,
Till a heavy golden shower
Through the roof comes pattering.
Then begone, for we must sever;
Greet thy fellows in their cell.
Ah! my legs already shiver;
My last breeches,—fare ye well!
Enderle von Ketsch
J. V. Scheffel.
[This ballad is founded on an incident narrated in the description of the Palatinate by Merian (1645), where, speaking of the village Ketsch, he tells us that “The Counte Palatine Otto Heinrich, afterwards Kurfürst, sailed in the yeere 1530 to the Holie Lande and to Jerusalem. Returning thence, hee came over the greate open sea, where a shipp from Norwaie mett him, and from it there came this cry: ‘Flye, flye, for ye fatt Enderle von Ketsch cometh!’ Now the Counte Palatine and his Chancellor Mückenhäuser knew a godless wretche of this name who dwelt at Ketsch, and therefore whenn they returned home they inquired of ye fatt Enderle and of the tyme of his deathe, and observed that itt agreed with the tyme whenn they did heare the crye upon ye sea, as whilom a professor of Heidelberg hath narrated in divers wrytings which hee left behinde.”]
Chorus.
“Away—along! Away—along!
With trembling, your jaws on the stretch.
Away—along! We sing the song
Of Enderle von Ketsch!”
Solo.
Old Heinrich, the Pfalzgrave of Rhine—oh!
Spoke out of a morning, “Rem blem!
I’m tired of the sour Hock wine—oh!
I’m off for Jerusalem.
“Far lovelier, neater, and nicer
Are the maids there who give you the cup;
Oh, Chancellor! oh, Mückenhäuser,
Five thousand gold ducats pack up.”
And as before Joppa they anchored,
The Chancellor held up his hand:
“Now drain to the dregs your last tankard,
For the ducats are come to an end.”
Old Heinrich said, “Well, and no wonder;
Rem blem! what remains to be seen!
We’ll paddle for Cyprus out yonder,
And make a small raise on the Queen.”
But just as the galley was dancing
By Cyprus, in beautiful night,
A storm o’er the billows came prancing,
With thunder and flashes of light.
In a ghastly wild glare, by the landing,
A black ship came rushing along;
There a ghost in his shirt-sleeves was standing,
And howling a horrible song.
Chorus.
“Away—along! Away—along!
With trembling, your jaws on the stretch.
Away—along! I sing the song
Of Enderle von Ketsch!”
Solo.
The thunder grew calmer and wiser,
Like oil lay the water below;
But oh, the old brave Mückenhäuser
The Chancellor felt sorrow and woe.
The Pfalzgrave stood up by the rudder,
And gazed on the billowy foam;
“Rem blem! all my soul’s in a shudder,
Oh, Cyprus—I travel for home!
“God spare me such terrible menace—
I’m wiser through trial and pain;
Back, back on our course to old Venice—
I’ll never borrow money again.
“And he who ’mid heathens at table
His cash to the devil has slammed,
Let him hook it in peace while he’s able,—
It sounds like all hell and be damned!”
J. V. Scheffel.
God and the Lover
Then full of longing hieing,
Straight I sought the Father, sighing:
O may I, may I, may I,
May I love the girl?
“You blackguard!” he outswore,
“If you want your back beat sore,
Then you may love the girl.”
Then full of longing hieing,
Straight I sought the good Priest, sighing:
O may I, may I, may I,
May I love the girl?
“My dear son, by my soul,
If you seek for Hell’s deep hole,
Then you may love the girl.”
Then full of longing hieing,
Straight I sought the Lord God, sighing:
O may I, may I, may I,
May I love the girl?
“My boy,” laughed he, “go take her:
Why the devil did I make her?—
Faith, you may love the girl!”
Old German.