And, harkee, garçon! let the blood Of cobwebbed years be spilled for him,-- Ay, in a rich Burgundian flood This piscatorial pride should swim; So, were he living, he would say He gladly died for me and mine, And, as it were his native spray, He'd lash the sauce--what, ho! the wine!
I would it were ordained for me To share your fate, O finny friend! I surely were not loath to be Reserved for such a noble end; For when old Chronos, gaunt and grim, At last reels in his ruthless line, What were my ecstasy to swim In wine, in wine, in glorious wine!
Well, here's a health to you, sweet Spring! And, prithee, whilst I stick to earth, Come hither every year and bring The boons provocative of mirth; And should your stock of bass run low, However much I might repine, I think I might survive the blow, If plied with wine and still more wine!
THE mill goes toiling slowly around With steady and solemn creak, And my little one hears in the kindly sound The voice of the old mill speak; While round and round those big white wings Grimly and ghostlike creep, My little one hears that the old mill sings, "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"
The sails are reefed and the nets are drawn, And over his pot of beer The fisher, against the morrow's dawn, Lustily maketh cheer; He mocks at the winds that caper along From the far-off, clamorous deep, But we--we love their lullaby-song Of "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"
Old dog Fritz, in slumber sound, Groans of the stony mart; To-morrow how proudly he'll trot you around, Hitched to our new milk-cart! And you shall help me blanket the kine, And fold the gentle sheep, And set the herring a-soak in brine,-- But now, little tulip, sleep!
A Dream-One comes to button the eyes That wearily droop and blink, While the old mill buffets the frowning skies, And scolds at the stars that wink; Over your face the misty wings Of that beautiful Dream-One sweep, And, rocking your cradle, she softly sings, "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"
OF tarts there be a thousand kinds, So versatile the art, And, as we all have different minds, Each has his favorite tart; But those which most delight the rest Methinks should suit me not: The onion tart doth please me best,-- Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!