Classic Poem

We sleep as Brutus slept of old,
But he awoke; the dagger cold
He plunged in Cæsar's breast—no scratch
Gave Rome's oppressors their despatch.

We smoke tobacco, no Romans we.
Each people has its taste, you see:
After its fashion at greatness looks!
A peerless dumpling Swabia cooks.

O we are Germans, decent and kind!
We sleep like hogs, with an easy mind,
We wake with a thirst, 'tis very true,
But princes' blood is not our brew.

Faithful are we as the oak, long tried,
Or the linden tree—'tis our chiefest pride.
The land of the oak and the linden fair
No Brutus hath borne, nor will ever bear.

And even were a Brutus found
No Cæsars grow on German ground;
For such 'twere vain to look: instead,
We make delicious gingerbread.

And we have six-and-thirty lords;
('Tis not too many!) each one wards
His breast with a star above the starch;
No need to fear the Ides of March.

We call them Fathers, and Fatherland
The country that this royal band,
From sire to son, have parcelled out.
We love our sausage and sauerkraut.

And when our Father walks abroad,
We lift our hats, to reverence awed.
A nursery this of children good.
And no assassins' den of blood.