Upon the hedge the beetle sits sadly,
He has fallen in love with a lady-fly madly.

O fly of my soul, ’tis thou alone
Art the wife I have chosen to be my own.

O marry me, and be not cold,
For I have a belly of glistening gold.

My back is a mass of glory and show,
There rubies glitter, there emeralds glow—

O would that I were a fool just now!
I’d never marry a beetle, I vow.

I care not for emeralds, rubies, or gold,
I know that no happiness riches enfold.

’Tis tow’rd the ideal my thought soars high,
For I am in truth a haughty fly.—

The beetle flew off, with a heart like to break,
The fly went away, a bath to take.

O what has become of my maid, the bee,
That she when I’m washing may wait on me,

That she may stroke my soft hair outside,
For I am now a beetle’s bride.

In truth, a splendid party I’ll give,
For handsomer beetle never did live.

His back is a mass of glory and show,
There rubies glitter, there emeralds glow.

His belly is golden, and noble each feature;
With envy will burst full many a creature.

Make haste, Miss Bee, and dress my hair,
And lace my waist, use perfumes rare.

With otto of roses rub me o’er,
And lavender oil on my feet then pour,

That I mayn’t stink or nastily smell,
When I in my bridegroom’s arms shall dwell.

Already are flitting the dragonflies blue,
As maids of honour to wait on me too.

Into my bridal garland they’ll twine
The blossoms white of the orange so fine.

Full many musicians are asked to the place,
And singers as well, of the grasshopper race.

The bittern, drone, hornet, and gadfly all come,
To blow on the trumpet, and beat the drum.

They’re all to strike up for the glad wedding feast—
The gay-wingèd guests, from greatest to least,

Are coming in families dapper and brisk,
The commoner insects amongst them frisk.

The grasshoppers, wasps, and the aunts, and the cousins
Are coming, whilst trumpets are blowing by dozens.

The pastor, the mole, in black dignified state,
Has also arrived, and the hour grows late.

The bells are all sounding ding-dong, ding-a-dong—
But where’s my dear bridegroom ling’ring so long?

Ding dong, ding-a-dong, sound the bells all the day,
The bridegroom however has flown far away.

The bells are all sounding ding-dong, ding-a-dong—
But where’s my dear bridegroom ling’ring so long?

The bridegroom has meanwhile taken his seat
On a distant dunghill, enjoying the heat.

Seven years there sits he, until his forgotten
Poor bride has long been dead and rotten.

They are no mere virtuosos
Who profane, for sordid wages,
Music, but of harmony
Are apostles true, and sages.

They no instruments use ever,
Each is his own flute and viol;
All their noses trumpets are,
Bellies, drums, and no denial.

They in chorus raise their voices,
In one general intermezzo,
Playing fugues, as if by Bach,
Or by Guido of Arezzo.

Wild the symphonies they’re singing
Like capriccios of Beethoven,
Or of Berlioz, who’s excell’d
By their strains so interwoven.

Wonderful their music’s might is!
Magic notes without an equal!
E’en the heavens they shake, the stars
All turn pallid in the sequel.

When the magic notes she heareth,
And the wondrous tones delightful,
Then Selene hides her face
With a veil of clouds so frightful.

But the nightingale with envy—
Scandalous old prima donna—
Turns her nose up, snuffs, and scorns
Mimi’s voice, to her dishonour.

Never mind! She’ll go on singing
Spite the envy of Signora,
Till on the horizon’s seen,
Smiling rosily, Aurora.

’Tis the fiddle makes the revel,—
Give, then, the musicians gold;
Though thou wish them at the devil,
Kiss thy aunts-in-law, though old.

Give a prince his meed of laurel,
Of a woman speak not ill;
With thy sausages don’t quarrel
When thou hast a sow to kill.

If the church to thee is hateful,
All the more attend its shrine;
To the parson be thou grateful,
Send him, too, a flask of wine.

If an itching chance to teaze thee,
Like a man of honour, scratch;
If thy shoe be tight and squeeze thee,
Slippers get with all despatch.

If thy soup has too much seasoning,
Be not in an angry mood;
Smiling say, instead of reasoning:
“Sweet wife, all thou cook’st is good.”

If thy wife a wish expresses
For a shawl, straight buy her two;
Buy her golden brooches, dresses,
Lace and jewels not a few.

If thou’lt give this plan a trial,
Then, my friend, thou’lt surely gain
Heaven to bless thy self-denial,
And on earth to peace attain.

Orphan children two and two,
Wandering gladly on we view,
All of them blue coats are wearing,
All of them red cheeks are bearing—
O the pretty orphan children!

All are moved when thus they prattle,
And the money boxes rattle;
Liberal alms upon them flow,
That their secret sires bestow,—
O the pretty orphan children!

Women of a feeling heart
Many a poor child kiss apart,
Kiss his driv’lling nose (not pleasant),
Give him sweetmeats as a present—
O the pretty orphan children!

One, with timid face but willing,
Throws into the box a shilling,—
For he has a heart,—then gaily
Follows he his business daily—
O the pretty orphan children!

One a golden louis-d’or
Next bestows, but not before
Heavenward looking, hoping blindly
That the Lord will view him kindly—
O the pretty orphan children!

Porters, coopers, working men,
Servants, make to-day again
Holiday, and drain their glasses,
Drinking to these lads and lasses—
O the pretty orphan children!

Tutelar Hammonia
Follows them incognita;
As she moves, her form gigantic
Sways about, in manner frantic—
O the pretty orphan children!

In the green field where they went
Music fills the lofty tent,
Cover’d o’er with flag and banner;
There are fed in sumptuous manner
All these pretty orphan children.

There in lengthy rows they sit,
Eating many a nice tit-bit,
Tarts and cakes and sweet things crunching,
While like little mice they’re munching,—
All these pretty orphan children.

Now my thoughts to dwell begin
On an orphan-house wherein
There no feasting is or gladness,
Where lament in ceaseless sadness,
Millions of poor orphan children.

There no uniforms are seen,
Many want their dinner e’en;
No two walk together yonder,
Lonely, sorrowfully wander
Many million orphan children.

The philharmonic young cats’ club
Is now returning to artless
And primitive music, and naïveté,
From modern fashions all heartless.

It seeks in music for poetry,
Roulades with the quavers omitted
It seeks for poetry, music-void,
For voice and instrument fitted.

It seeks for genius’s sovereign sway,
Which often bungles truly,
Yet oft in art unconsciously
Attains the highest stage duly.

It honours the genius which prefers
Dame Nature to keep at a distance,
And will not show off its learning,—in fact
Its learning not having existence.

This is the programme of our cat club,
And with these intentions elated,
It holds its first winter concert to-night
On the roof, as before I have stated.

Yet sad was the execution, alas!
Of this great idea so splendid;
I’m sorry, my dear friend Berlioz,
That by thee it wasn’t attended.

It was a charivari, as though
With brandy elated greatly,
Three dozen pipers struck up the tune
That the poor cow died of lately.

It was an utter medley, as though
In Noah’s ark were beginning
The whole of the beasts in unison
The Deluge to tell of in singing,

O what a croaking, snarling, and noise!
O what a mewing and yelling!
And even the chimneys all join’d in,
The wonderful chorus swelling.

And loudest of all was heard a voice
Which sounded languid and shrieking
As Sontag’s voice became at the last,
When utterly broken and squeaking.

The whimsical concert! Methinks that they
A grand Te Deum were chanting,
To honour the triumph o’er reason obtain’d
By commonest frenzy and canting.

Perchance moreover the young cats’ club
The opera grand were essaying
That the greatest pianist of Hungary[89]
Composed for Charenton’s playing.

It was not till the break of day
That an end was put to the party;
A cook was in consequence brought to bed
Who before had seem’d well and hearty.

The lying-in woman lost her wits,
Her memory, too, was affected,
And who was the father of her child
No longer she recollected.

Say, was it Peter? Say, was it Paul?
Say who is the father, Eliza!
“O Liszt, thou heavenly cat!” she said,
And simper’d and look’d the wiser.

Ye Germans are a wonderful race,
So simple and yet so clever;
One forgets that gunpowder, but for you,
Had been discover’d never.

Your emperor,—no, your father I’ll be,
Your welfare shall be my sole glory—
O blissful thought! it makes me as proud
As the Gracchi’s mother in story.

I’ll govern my people by feeling alone,
And not by the light of mere reason;
I never could bear diplomacy,
And politics hate like treason.

A huntsman am I, and Nature’s own child,
Who had in the forest my training,
With chamois and snipe and roebuck and boar,—
A foe to all nonsense and feigning.

By proclamations I never enticed,
No printed pamphlet invented;
I say: “My people, the salmon’s all gone,
“With cod for to-day be contented.

“If I don’t please you as Emperor, take
“The first donkey that comes about you;
“I had, when I lived in the Tyrol, no lack,
“I’ve plenty to eat without you.”

Thus speak I, but now, my wife, farewell,
I must end my long discourses;
My father-in-law’s postilion’s outside,
Awaiting me with the horses.

Quick, hand me over my travelling cap,
With the ribbon all black-red-golden;
Thou’lt see me soon with the diadem,
In the dress imperial and olden.

Thou’lt see me in the Pluvial too,
The purple robe so glorious,
The gift of the Saracen Sultan erst
To Otto, the Cæsar victorious.

Beneath, I shall wear the Dalmatian dress,
Whereon, in each species of jewel,
A train of lions and camels is work’d,
And fabulous monsters and cruel.

Upon my breast the stole I shall wear,
Significantly blended
With eagles black on a yellow ground,—
The garment is really splendid.

Farewell! Posterity shall say
I reign’d with honest intention.—
Who knows? Posterity perchance
My name will never mention.

The king then said, “Thou’rt not such a fool,
“My friend, as thou fain wouldst persuade me.”
“That’s because I was changed in my cradle,” said he,
“By the cobolds, who different made me.”

The king then spake: “The Swabians are wont
“To love their fatherland dearly;
“So why hast thou left thy native home?
“Explain the reason clearly.”

The Swabian replied: “Each day I had nought
“But turnips and sour-crout ever;
“And had my mother but cook’d me meat,
“I had left my fatherland never.”

“One wish I will grant thee,” the monarch then said—
Then the Swabian in deep supplication
Knelt down and exclaim’d: “O, Sire, pray grant
“Their freedom once more to the nation.

“Freeborn is man, and Nature ne’er meant
“That he as a slave should perish;
“O, Sire, restore to the German folk
“The rights that they manfully cherish!”

The monarch in deep amazement stood,
The scene was really enthralling;
With his sleeve the Swabian wiped from his eye
The tear that was wellnigh falling.

At last said the king: “In truth a fine dream!
“Farewell, and pray learn more discretion;
“And as a somnambulist plainly thou art,
“Of thy person I’ll give the possession

“To two trusty gendarmes, whose duty ’twill be
“To see thee safe over the border—
“Farewell! I must hasten to join the parade,
“The drums are beating to order.”

And so this affecting audience came
To a most affecting conclusion.
But from that moment the monarch allow’d
No more of his children’s intrusion.[90]

In eighteen hundred and forty-eight,
When passions men’s minds were heating,
The German nation’s parliament
At Frankfort held its meeting.

Just at this time, in the Senate-house
Appear’d the white lady ghostly,
The spectre that heralds the coming of woe,—
They call her the Housekeeper mostly.

By night they say in the Senate-house
She is wont to make her appearance,
Whenever the Germans their foolish tricks play
With extra perseverance.

I saw her myself at the selfsame time
As she roam’d in the hours of slumber
Through the silent chambers, wherein were piled
The middle ages’ old lumber.

She held the lamp and a bunch of keys
In her hands so pale and sickly;
She open’d the presses against the walls,
And the chests strew’d around her thickly.

There lie the imperial insignia all,
There lies the bull all-golden,
The sceptre, the regal apple, the crown,
And more of such fancies olden.

There lie the ancient imperial robes,
The purple frippery faded,
The German kingdom’s wardrobe in fact,
Now rusted and rot-pervaded.

The Housekeeper mournfully shakes her head
At the sight, then with deep displeasure
She suddenly cries at the top of her voice:
“The whole of them stink beyond measure!

“The whole of them stink with mice’s dung
“And rotten and mouldy’s the ermine;
“And all the gaudy trumpery work
“Is swarming with noxious vermin.

“In truth, on this splendid ermine dress,
“Once used at the coronation,
“The cats of the Senate-house district are wont
“To lie, as their lying-in station.

“’Tis useless to clean them; I pity the fate
“Of the Emperor next elected;
“By the fleas in his coronation robe
“His health will be surely affected.

“And know ye, that all the people must scratch,
“Whenever the Emperor itches—
“O Germans, I dread the princely fleas
“Who swallow up much of your riches.

“Yet what is the use of monarch and fleas?
“For rusty are now and all rotten
“The olden costumes—By modern days
“Are the ancient dresses forgotten.

“The German poet at Kyffhauser said
“To Barbarossa quite truly:
“‘I find that we want no Emperor now,
“When I weigh the matter duly.’

“But if, spite of all, ye an empire must have,
“With an Emperor reigning o’er ye,
“My worthy Germans, don’t suffer yourselves
“To be snared by genius or glory.

“Choose one of the people your monarch to be,
“All sons of the nobles reject ye;
“Select not the lion, select not the fox,
“The dullest of sheep elect ye.

“Elect as your Monarch Colonia’s son,
“The crown to dull Kobes awarding;
“The genius of Dulness well-nigh is he,
“His people he’ll ne’er be defrauding.

“A log is ever the best of kings,
“As Esop has shown in the fable;
“He cannot devour us poor frogs up,
“As the stork with his long bill is able.

“Be sure that Kobes no tyrant will be,
“No Holofernes or Nero;
“He boasts no terrible antique heart,
“A soft modern heart has our hero.

“Though vulgar pride might scorn such a heart
“Yet in the arms of the helot
“Of work the unfortunate threw himself,
“Becoming a regular zealot.

“The men of the journeymen’s Burschenschaft
“As president Kobes elected;
“He shared with them their last piece of bread,
“They held him vastly respected.

“They boasted that he in all his life
“Had never been at college,
“And out of his head composed his books
“By the light of intuitive knowledge.

“Yes, his consummate ignorance
“Was the fruit of his own endeavour;
“With foreign wisdom and training he
“Had injured his intellect never.

“From abstract philosophy’s influence he
“Kept likewise his thoughts and his spirit
“Entirely free.—Himself he remain’d!
“Yes, Kobes has really his merit!

“The tear of the usual stereotype form
“In his beautiful eye is gleaming,
“And from his lips incessantly
“The grossest stupidity’s streaming.

“He prates and he grins, and he grins and prates,
“His words with long ears are provided;
“A pregnant woman who heard him speak
“Gave birth to a donkey decided.

“With scribbling books and knitting he’s wont
“His idle hours to flavour;
“The stockings that he with his own hands knit
“Have met with particular favour.

“To devote himself wholly to knitting he’s begg’d
“By Apollo and all the Muses;
“They’re frighten’d whenever they see that his hand
“A goose-quill laboriously uses.

“His knitting recals the olden time
“Of the Funken,[91]—who all stood knitting
“While mounting guard,—these men of Cologne
“No means of amusement omitting.

“If Kobes is Emp’ror, he’ll surely recal
“To life these Funken deserving;
“The valiant band will surround his throne,
“As the guard imperial serving.

“He well might be glad to go at their head,
“And march over France’s borders,
“And Alsace, Lorraine, and Burgundy fair
“Bring under Germany’s orders.

“Yet be not afraid, at home he’ll remain,
“Intent on a scheme long suspended,
“A lofty idea, the completion, in fact,
“Of Cologne Cathedral so splendid.

“But when the Cathedral’s quite complete,
“Then Kobes will get in a passion,
“And sword in hand, will bring the French
“To account in a regular fashion.

“He’ll take Alsace and Lorraine away
“(By France from the empire estreated);
“To Burgundy, too, he’ll triumphantly go,
“When once the Cathedral’s completed.

“Ye Germans, pray lose not your senses quite,
“If an Emperor’s needed, I’ll name him;
“The Carnival King of Cologne let it be,
“As Kobes the First now proclaim him!

“The fools of the Carnival rout at Cologne,
“With caps and bells ringing and mocking,
“Shall be his ministers of state,
“His scutcheon a knitted stocking.

“Let Drickes be Chancellor, calling himself
“Count Drickes of Drickeshausen,
“And Marizebill the Mistress of State,
“With the Emperor fondly carousing.[92]

“Within his good sacred town of Cologne
“Will be Kobes’s habitation;
“And when the Cologners hear the glad news,
“They’ll have an illumination.

“The bells, the iron dogs of the air,
“Into joyous barks will be breaking,
“And the three holy kings from the land of the East
“In their chapel will soon be awaking.

“They’ll step outside with their clattering bones,
“All dancing with rapture and springing;
“I hear them the Hallelujah’s strains
“And Kyrie Eleison singing.”—

Thus spoke the dread white nightly ghost
With loud uproarious laughter;
Through all the resounding halls of the place
The echo rang wildly long after.

Graves they say are warm’d by glory;
Foolish words and empty story!
Better far the warmth we prove
From a cow-girl deep in love,
With her arms around us flung,
Reeking with the smell of dung.
And that warmth is better too
That man’s entrails pierces through
When he drinks hot punch and wine,
Or his fill of grog divine,
In the vilest, meanest den
’Mongst the thieves and scum of men,
Who escape the gallows daily,
But who breathe and live all-gaily,
With as enviable fate
As e’en Thetis’ son so great.—
Rightly did Pelides say:
Living in the meanest way
In the upper world’s worth more,
Than beside the Stygian shore
King of shades to be; a hero
Such as Homer sang is zero.