Und wieder sprach der Rodenstein—
'Pelzkappenschwerenoth!
Hans Schleuning, Stabstrompeter mein,
Bist untreu oder todt?
Lebst noch? Lebst noch und hebst noch?
Man g'spuert dich nirgend mehr;
Schon naht die durf'tge Mainweinzeit,
Du musst mir wieder her!'
Again outspoke the Rodenstein—
'May thunder split my head!
Hans Schleuning, trumpeter of mine,
Art thou untrue or dead?
Art living man?—art moving?—
No trace I find of thee;
The thirsty May-wine time is near:—
Oh, come again to me!'
He rode till he to Darmstadt came,
And badly still he fared,
Till halting at The Old Black Lamb,
He through the window glared.
'He lives still!—thrives still!—lives still!
But ask not how from me.
How comes my brave old fugle-man
In such a company?'
Without a word, without a wink,
There sat a solemn crowd;
Small beer was all their evening drink,
There rang no word aloud.
'So-bri-ety, pro-pri-ety!
Is a great duty, sir!'
So whispered a small vestry-man
Unto a colporteur.
Among these half-glass tippling men
A silent guest there sat;
And as the clock struck eight just then,
He caught up stick and hat.
'What eight! what eight! Good-night! 'tis late!
I've learned good hours to keep;
Ah well!—a steady life's the best,
I'll go to bed and sleep!'
The Rodenstein in grimmest scorn
Glared o'er his horse's mane;
Then thrice he blew his hunting horn
With thundering refrain:
'Rouse there! rouse out o' th' house, there!
Rouse out your runaway!
That lame, tame guest, ye cursed crew,
Belongs to me, I say.'
A shudder swept across that guest
Like some strange sense of sin;
Then with a jug, like one possessed,
He smashed the window in.
'Rouse house, and curse the house, here!
Oh, horn and spur and scorn.
Oh Rodenstein! Oh, German wine!
I am not lost and lorn!
Rum diri di—all right,
Hey, diri da—free night!
Old patron mine—again I'm thine!
Huzza! Hallo!
Huzza! Hallo!
Yo hi a ho!—Arouse!
Hi—a-ho!
Hi—o!'