They are still the wooden pedantic race, In every motion displaying The same right angle, and every face A frigid conceit still betraying.
They walk about stiffly, as though upon stilts, Stuck up as straight as a needle, Appearing as if they had swallow’d the stick Once used as the best means to wheedle.
Yes, ne’er has entirely vanish’d the rod, They carry it now inside them; Familiar _Du_ will recall the old _Er_ Wherein they were wont to pride them.
The long mustachio nothing more Than the pigtail of old discloses The tail that formerly hung behind Is hanging right under their noses.
I was not displeased with the new costume Of the cavalry, I must confess it; And chiefly the headpiece, the helmet in fact With the steel point above it, to dress it.
It seems so knightly, and takes one back To the sweet romance of past ages, To the Countess Johanna of Mountfaucon, Tieck, Uhland, Fouqué, and such sages.
The middle ages it calls to mind, With their squires and noble inferiors, Who in their bosoms fidelity bore, And escutcheons upon their posteriors.
Crusades and tourneys it brings back too, And love, and respect at a distance, And times of faith, ere printing was known, When newspapers had no existence.
Yes, yes, I admire the helmet, it shows An intellect truly enchanting! Right royal indeed the invention was, The _point_ is really not wanting!
If a storm should arise, a peak like this (The thought is terribly fright’ning) On your romantic head might attract The heavens’ most modern lightning!
At Aix-la-Chapelle, on the posthouse arms, I saw the bird detested Yet once again. With poisonous glare His eyes upon me rested.
Detestable bird! If e’er thou should’st fall In my hands, thou creature perfidious, I would tear thy feathers from off thy back, And hack off thy talons so hideous!
And then I would stick thee high up on a pole In the air, thou wicked freebooter, And then to the joyful shooting match Invite each Rhenish sharpshooter.
As for him who succeeds in shooting thee down, The crown and sceptre shall proudly Reward the worthy; the trumpets we’ll blow, “Long life to the king,” shouting loudly.[42]
’Twas late at night when I reach’d Cologne, The Rhine was past me rushing, The air of Germany on me breath’d, And I felt its influence gushing