Und vhen he vant to shtart it off
He paddlet mit his feet,
Und soon he cot to go so vast
Dat efery dings he peat.
He run her out on Broader shtreed,
He shkeeted like der vind,
Hei! how he bassed de vancy crabs,
And lef dem all pehind!

De vellers mit de trottin nags
Pooled oop to see him bass;
De Deutschers all erstaunished saidt:
“Potztausend! Was ist das?”
Boot vaster shtill der Schnitzerl flewed
On—mit a ghastly shmile;
He tidn’t tooch de dirt, py shings!
Not vonce in half a mile.

Oh, vot ish all dis eart’ly pliss?
Oh, vot ish man’s soocksess?
Oh, vot ish various kinds of dings?
Und vot ish hobbiness?
Ve find a pank node in de shtreedt,
Next dings der pank ish preak!
Ve folls, and knocks our outsides in,
Vhen ve a ten shtrike make.

So vas it mit der Schnitzerlein
On his philosopede.
His feet both shlipped outsidevard shoost
Vhen at his exdra shpeed.
He felled oopon der vheel of coorse;
De vheel like blitzen flew!
Und Schnitzerl he vos schnitz in vact,
For it shlished him grod in two.

Und as for his philosopede,
Id cot so shkared, men say,
It pounded onward till it vent
Ganz tyfelwards afay.
Boot vhere ish now der Schnitzerl’s soul?
Vhere dos his shbirit pide?
In Himmel droo de endless plue,
It takes a medeor ride.

Vhen Breitmann hear dat Schnitzerl
Vas quardered into dwo,
Und how his crate philosopede
To ‘m tyfel had peen flew,
He dinked und dinked so heafy,
Ash only Deutschers can,
Denn saidt, “Who mighdt peliefet
Dish is de ent of man?”

“De human souls of beoples
Exisdt in deir idées,
Und dis of Wolfram Schnitzerl
Mighdt drafel many vays.
In his Bestimmung des Menschen
Der Fichte makes pelieve,
Dat ve brogress oon-endtly
In vhat pehindt ve leave.

“De shparrow falls ground-downvarts
Or drafels to de West;
De shparrows dat coom afder,
Bild shoost de same old nest.
Man had not vings or fedders,
Und in oder dings, ’Tis set,
He tont coom up to shparrows,
But on nests he goes ahet.

“O! vliest dou droo bornin’ vorldts,
Und nebuloser foam,
By monsdrous mitnight shiant forms,
Or vhere red tyfels roam;
Or vhere de ghosdts of shky-rockets
Peyond creation flee?
Vhere e’er dou art, O Schnitzerlein,
Crate Saindt! Look down on me!

“Und deach me how you maket
Dat crate philosopede,
Vhich roon dwice six mals vaster
Ash any Arap shteed.
Und deach me how to ’stonish volk,
Und knock dem oud de shpots.
Coom pack to eart’, O Schnitzerlein,
Und pring id down to dots!”

Shoost ash dish vordt vent outvarts,
Hans dinked he saw a vlash,
Und oonterwards de dable
He doompelt mit a crash.
Und to him, moong de glasses,
Und pottles ash vas proke,
Mit his het in a cigar-box,
A foice from Himmel shpoke:

“Adsum, Domine Breitmann!
Herr Copitain, here I pe!
So dell me rite honeste,
Quare inquietasti me?
Te video inter spoonibus,
Et largis glassis too,
Cerevisia repletis,
Sicut percussus tonitru!”

Denn Breitmann ansver Schnitzerl;
“Coarctor nimis, see!
Siquidem Philistiim
Pugnant adversum me.
Ergo vocavi te,
Ash Saul vocavit Sam—
Uel, ut mi ostenderes
Quid teufel faciam?”

Denn de shpirit (in Lateinisch)
Saidt “Bene, dat’s de talk,
Non habes in hoc shanty,
A shingle et some chalk?
Non video inkum nec calamos
(I shpose some bummer shdole ’em),
Levate oculos tuos, son,
Et aspice ad linteolum!”

Denn Breitmann see de biece of chalk
Vhich riset vrom de vloor,
Und signed a fine philosopede
Alone, oopon de toor.
De von dat Schnitzerl fobricate,
Und oonderneat’ he see:
Probate inter equites,
(Try dis in de cavallrie).

Der Breitmann shtood oop from de vloor,
Und leanet on a post;
Und saidt: “If dis couldt, shouldt hafe peen,
Dar vouldt, mighdt peen a ghosdt;
Boot if id pe noumenon,
Phenomenoned indeed,
Or de soobyectif obyectified,
I’fe cot de philosopede.”

Denn out he seekt a plackschmit,
Ash vork in iron-steel,
To make him a philosopede
Mit shoost an only vheel.
De dings vas maket simple,
Ash all crate id#233;es shouldt pe,
For ’tvas noding boot a gart-vheel,
Mit a dwo-feet axel dree.

De dimes der Breitmann doomple,
In learnin’ for to ride,
Vas ofdener ash de sand-crains
Dat rollen in de tide.
De dimes he cot oopsettet,
In shdeerin’ left und righdt,
Vas ofdener ash de cleamin’ shdars,
Dat shtud de shky py night.

Boot de vorstest of de veadures
In dis von-vheel horse, you pet,
Ish dat man couldt go so nicely,
Pefore he get oopset.
Some dimes he co like plazes,
Und doorn her, extra-fine;
Und denn shlop ofer—dis is vot
Hafe kill der Schnitzerlein.

Soosh droples ash der Breitmann hafe,
To make dis ’vention go,
Vas nefer seen py mordal man,
Oopon dis vorldt pelow.
He doomplet righdt—he doomplet left,
He hafe a dousand doomps;
Dere nefer vas a gricket ball
Ash get soosh ’fernal boomps.

Boot—ash he’d shvearet he’d poot it droo,
He shvear’t it moost pe tone;
Dough he schimpft’ und flucht’ gar lästerlich,
He visht he’t ne’er pegun.
Mit “Hagel! Blitz! Kreuz-sakrament!”
He maket de Houser ring,
Und vish der Schnitzerl vas in hell,
For deachin’ him dis ding.

Nun—goot! At lasht he cot it,
Und peautifool he goed,
“Dis day,” saidt he, “I’ll ‘stonish folk
A ridin’ in de road.
Dis day, py shings! I’ll do it,
Und knock dings oud of sight:”—
Ach weh!—for Breitmann dat day
Vas not be-markt mit vhite.

De noombers of de Deutsche volk,
Dat coomed dis sighdt to see,
I dink, in soper earnst-hood,
Mighdt not ge-reckonet pe.
For miles dey shtoodt along de road,
Mein Gott!— boot dey wer’n dry;
Dey trinket den lager-bier shops out,
Pefore der Hans coom py.

Vhen all at vonce drementous gries
De fery coondry shook,
Und beople’s shkreemt, “Da ist er!—Schau!
Here cooms der Breitmann, look!”
Mein Gott! vas efer soosh a sighdt!
Vas efer soosh a gry!
Vhen like a brick-pat in a vighdt,
Der Breitemann roosh py?

Oh mordal man! Vhy ish idt, dou
Hast passion to go vast?
Vhy ish id dat te tog und horse
Likes shbeed too quick to lasht?
De pugs, de pirds, de pumple-pees,
Und all dat ish, ’tvouldt seem
Ish nefer hobby boot, exsepdt,
Vhen pilin’ on de shdeam.

Der Breitmann flew! Von mighdy gry
Ash he vent scootin’ bast;
Von derriple, drementous yell;—
Dat day de virst—und lasht.
Vot ha! Vot ho! Vhy ish it dus?
Vhot makes dem shdare aghasht?
Vhy cooms dat vail of vild deshbair?
Ish somedings cot ge-shmasht?

Yea, efen so. Yea, ferily,
Shbeak, soul!—it ish dy biz!
Der Breitmann shkeet so vast along
Dey fairly heard him whizz.
Vhen shoost oopon a hill-top point
It caught a pranch ge-bent,
Und like an apple from a shling,
Afay Hans Breitmann vent.

Vent droo de air an hoondert feet
Allowin’ more or lees:—
Denn, pob-pob-pob—a mile or dwo
He rollet along—I guess.
Say—hast dou seen a gannon ball
Half shpent, shtill poundin’ on,
Like made of gummi-lasticum?—
So vent der Breitmann.

Dey bick him oop—dey pring him in,
No wort der Breitmann shboke.
Der doktor look—he shwear erstaunt
Dat nodings ish peen proke.
“He rollt de rocky road entlang,
He pounce o’er shtock und shtone,
You’d dink he’d knocked his outsites in,
Yet nefer preak a pone!”

All shtill Hans lay, bevilderfied;
He seemt not mind de shaps,
Nor mofed oontil der medicus
Hafe dose him vell mit schnapps.
De schmell voke oop de boetry
Of tays vhen he vas yoong,
Und he murmulte de fragmends
Of an sad romantish song:

“Ash sommer pring de roses
Und roses pring de dew,
So Deutschland gifes de maidens
Who fetch de bier for you.
Komm Maidelein! rothe Waengelein!
Mit wein-glass in your paw!
Ve’ll get troonk among de roses,
Und pe soper on de shtraw!

“Ash vinter pring de ice-wind
Vitch plow o’er Burg und hill,
Hard times pring in de landlord,
Und de landlord pring the pill.
Boot sing Maidelein—rothe Waengelein!
Mit wein glass in your paw!
Ve’ll get troonk among de roses,
Und pe soper on de shtraw!”

Dey dook der Breitmann homewarts,
Boot efer on de vay
He nefer shpeaket no man,
Und nodings else couldt say,
Boot, “Maidelein—rothe Waengelein!
Mit wein-glass in her paw,
Ve’ll get troonk among de roses,
Und pe soper on de shtraw!”

Dey laid der Hans im bette,
Peneat’ de eider doun,
Und sembelet all de doktors
Who doktor in de town,—
Dat ish, de Deutsche Aertzte,—
For Breitmann alvays says,
De Deutschers ish de onlies
Mit originell idées.

Der vas Doktor Moritz Schlinkenschlag,
Dat vork ash Caféopath,
Und de learned Cobus Schoepfskopf,
Who use de milchy bath;
Und Korschalitschky aus Boehmen,
Vhat cure mit slibovitz,
Und Wechselbalg, der Preusse,
Who only ’tend to fits.

Dere vas Strobbich aus Westfalen,
Who mofe all eart’ly ills
Mit concentrirter Schinken juice,
Und Pumpernickel pills.
Und a bier-kur man from Munich,
Und a grape-curist from Rhein,
Und von who shkare tiseases
Mit a dose of Schlesier-wein.

So dey meet in consooldation,
Mit Doktor Winkeleck,
Who proctice “renovation”
Mit sauer-kraut und speck.
Und dat no man shouldt pe shlightet,
Or dreatet ash a tunce,
Dey ’greed to dry deir systems
Oopon Breitmann—all at vonce.

Dat ish, mit de exscepdion
Of gifin’ Schlesier-wein:
For de remedy vas dangerfull
For von who trink from Rhein.
Ash der Teufel vonce deklaret,
Vhen he taste it on a shpree,
Dat a man, to trink soosh liquor,
Moost a porn Silesian pe.

So dey all vent los at Breitmann,
Und woonderfool to dell,
He coom to his Gesundheit,
Und pooty soon cot vell.
Some hinted at Natura,
Mit her olt vis sanatrix,
Boot eash doktor shvore he curet him,
Und de rest were taugenix.

I know not vot der Breitmann
More newly has pegun;
Boot dey say he talks day-dayly
Mit Dana of de Sun.
Dey talk in Deutsch togeder,
Und volk say de end will be,
Philosopedal shanges
In de Union Cavallrie.

Gott helf de howlin’ safage!
Got helf de Indi-án!
Shouldt Breitmann shoin his forces
Mit Sheneral Sheridan!
Und denn, to sing his braises,
I’ll write anoder lied:
Hier hat dis dale an ende,
Of Breitmann’s Philosopede!