IN A field of goldnen parley
Goot King Gambrinus shlept,
Und treamin’ pout de dursty volk,
Dey say he gried und vept.
“In all mine land of Nederland,
Dere crows no mead or wein,
Und wasser I couldt nefer get
Indo dis troat of mein.
“Now hear me on, ye headen gotts!
Und all de Christian too;
Der Bacchus und der Shoopider,
Und Màrie tressed in plue!
Und mighdy Thor, der donner gott,
Und any else dat be!
Der von as helps me in dis Noth,
His serfant I will pe.”
Und ash dis sinfull headen
All in de parley lay,
Dere coom in tream an angel
Who soft dese worts tid say:
“Stay oop, dou boor Gambrinus!
For efen all aroundt
Im parley vhere dou shleepest,
Some dings goot to trink ish found.
“Im parley vhere dou shleepest
Dere hides a trink so clear,
Dat men will know zukunftig—
Ash porter—ale—or bier.”
Und denn in Nederlandisch
He put de könig troo,
Und gafe him—allwhile treaming—
De recipé to prew.
Oop rose der goot Gambrinus,
Und shook him in de sun:
“Go vay, ye sinfool headen gotts!
Mit you its out und done!
Ye’fe left me mit mine beoples
In error und in durst,
Till in our treadful tryness,
Ve tont know vitch is wurst.”
Dat vas der goot Gambrinus
Oonto his palac’t vent,
Und loafers troo de Nederland
To all his lordts he sent.
“Leave Odin—or you lose your hets!”
De order vas sefere,
Yet tinged mit mildness, for he sent
De recipé for bier.
O den a merry sound vas heardt
Of bildin troo de land,
Und de kirchen und de braweries
Vent oop on efery hand;
For de masons dey vere hart at vork,
Und trinkin hart at dat,
Und some hat bricks mitin de hods,
Und some mitin deir hat.
Dey prew it in de Nederland,
Dey prew it on de Rhine;
Boot in de oldt Bavarian land,
Dey make it shdrong und fein.
Und he dat trinks in Munich,
Ash all goot vellers know,
Has got somedings to dink apout,
Vherefer he may go.
II.
Hafe you heardt of Köng Gambrinus?
If you hafen’t id vas gueer,
For he vas de first erfinder
Und de holy saint of bier.
Und his bortrait, mit a sceptre,
Fery peaudifool to see,
Hangs on afery lager-bier house,
In de land of Germanie.
Efery vhere de whole world ofer,
Deutschers paint him on de sign,
As a broof dat dey are dealin
In de Bok und Lager line.
Crown und bier-mug, robe und ermine;
German signs of empire, dese,
Mit a long white beard a fallin’
Fery nearly to his knees.
Vonce dis bier-saint, pright und early,
Rose from bett und vent his vay,
To a dark mysderious gastle,
Vhere his lager-donjon lay.
Vhile de lark’s first song vas ringin’,
Und die roses shone in dew,
Den his soul vas shoost in order
To enshoy de early brew.
Deeply, awfooly he schwilled it,
Till de vaults seem toornin round;
Und vhile tipsy—over tips he—
In he falls—und dere is trowned.
Yet vhile goorglin in de bier-fass,
Biously he gafe his soul:
“Gott verdammich! Donnerwetter!
Himmels sacrament-a-mol!”
Dere dey found der köng “departed,”
Not mitout his stir-up cup:
Moosh dey woonderd dat he berishet
Vhen he might hafe troonk it oop;
Or dat his long peard vitch floatet
Fool a yard on efery side,
Hadn’t buoyed him from destrugdion:—
Dus der beer-dead monarch died.
|