Where but in Deutschland can be found This boon of which I sing? Who but a Teuton could compound This _sui generis_ thing? None with the German frau can vie In arts cuisine, I wot, Whose _summum bonum_ breeds the sigh, "Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!"
You slice the fruit upon the dough, And season to the taste, Then in an oven (not too slow) The viand should be placed; And when 'tis done, upon a plate You serve it piping hot. Your nostrils and your eyes dilate,-- Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
It sweeps upon the sight and smell In overwhelming tide, And then the sense of taste as well Betimes is gratified: Three noble senses drowned in bliss! I prithee tell me, what Is there beside compares with this? Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
For if the fruit be proper young, And if the crust be good, How shall they melt upon the tongue Into a savory flood! How seek the Mecca down below, And linger round that spot, Entailing weeks and months of woe,-- Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
If Nature gives men appetites For things that won't digest, Why, let _them_ eat whatso delights, And let _her_ stand the rest; And though the sin involve the cost Of Carlsbad, like as not 'Tis better to have loved and lost,-- Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
Beyond the vast, the billowy tide, Where my compatriots dwell, All kinds of victuals have I tried, All kinds of drinks, as well; But nothing known to Yankee art Appears to reach _the spot_ Like this Teutonic onion tart,-- Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
So, though I quaff of Carlsbad's tide As full as I can hold, And for complete reform inside Plank down my horde of gold, Remorse shall not consume my heart, Nor sorrow vex my lot, For I have eaten onion tart,-- Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
IT'S everywhere that women fair invite and please my eye, And that on dress I lay much stress I can't and sha'n't deny: The English dame who's all aflame with divers colors bright, The Teuton belle, the ma'moiselle,--all give me keen delight; And yet I'll say, go where I may, I never yet have seen A dress that's quite as grand a sight as was that bombazine.
Now, you must know 'twas years ago this quaint but noble gown Flashed in one day, the usual way, upon our solemn town. 'Twas Fisk who sold for sordid gold that gravely scrumptious thing,-- Jim Fisk, the man who drove a span that would have joyed a king,-- And grandma's eye fell with a sigh upon that sombre sheen, And grandpa's purse looked much the worse for grandma's bombazine.