Classic Poem

DERE'S lighds oopon de Appian,
Dey shine de road entlang;
Und from ein hundert tombs dere brumms
A wild Lateinisch song;
It rings from Nero's goldnen haus;
Evoe! - here he coom!
Fly oud, ye moenads, from your craves!-
Hans Breitmann's got to Rome!

For vhile de lamp holts oud to purn,
Or von goot shpark ish dere,
Dere's hope for all of dem whose lives
Ish doun in Lempriere.
Von real, shenuine heathen
Is coom at'last to home;
Ye shleepin gotts, lift oop your hets-
Hans Breitmann lifes in Rome!

Silenus mit der Hercules,
Dere-to der Maia's sohn,
Ish all unite in Breitmann
To make a stunnin one.
Frau Venus mit de Bacchanals
Ist shmile to see him come;
De Vesta only toorn her pack
Vhen Breitmann kit to Rome.

He vented to de Vacuum,
Vhere de Bope ish keep his bulls;
Boot couldn't vind dem, dough he heardt
Dat all de blace vas fools.
Dere ish here and dere some ochsen,
Right manivest I see;
Boot de bools all comes from Irish priests,
Said Breitemann, said he.

Und goin' py de Vacuum,
Und passin' troo de yard;
Mein Gott! how vas he stoomple, vhen
He see der Schweitzer guard,
Mit efery kinds of colors tresst,
Like shtreamers in de van.
" Hans Wurst ist stets ein Deutscher g'west, "
Das marked der Breitemann.

Und dus replied an guartsmann:-
" I shoys to see you here:
Ich bin dem Bapst sei Laibgaertner.
Dazu a halberthier.
Dis purpur kleid of yellow-plue
Vas made, ash I hafe heard,
Py von Hans Michel Angelo,
Der tailor of our guard.

" Ve're shoost von hoondert dirty strong,
Ve list for twenty year;
De serfice ist not pad, boot dis-
Verdamm das Romisch bier!
For ven mit birra gazzosa
A maiden fills my glass,
She might ash vell gife gift ash say-
" Feinslieb, ich schenk dir dass!" "

Und dus rebly der Breitmann:-
" Un Tedesco Italianazato,
Ein Deutscher toorned Italian, ish
Il diavolo in carnato.
Your clothes are like infernal flames,
Dey burn my fery soul;
Boot to-night we'll trink togedder - nun
Lieb'landsmann lebe wohl! "

At de Sherman artisds' festa,
Vhere all vas pright und fair,
'Tvas fairer und more prighterfull
Vhen Breitmann enter dere.
Und der vaiters in de Greco
(So long he trinked und sot)
Vas called him L'Ubbriacone-
'Tvas de name der Breitmann got.

He saw a veller in de shtreet,
Vot sell some friction-matches;
De kind dey call Infallible,
For dey blazes ven you scratches.
Dey dragged him off to brison,
Und tied him mit a rope;
For in Rome dere's nix Infallible,
Dey said, excebt de Bope.

Hans see de crate Prometheus,
In Corsini's gallery hang;
He tought apout de matches,
Und it made his heart go bang.
It's risk to carry light apout,
Too cheap for efery man;
How de Lucifers is fallen!
Ita dixit Breitmann.

He got among de Bope's Zouaves,
Dey trinked from morn to night;
Den frolicked colle belle
Ontil de shky crew pright.
It blease der Breitmann vonderfool,
And dus he often say:
" Zouaviter in modo ish
Der real Roman way. "

Boot oh, his heart burned vild mit fire,
His eyes gefilled mit tears,
At de gotts in efery bilder saal,
Mit goats' legs, tails, und ears.
Und he sopped - " Ach liebes Deutschland,
Bist here on every hand?
Was machst du Mephistopheles
So weit im Walschen Land? "

Boot de wood-nymphs boorst out laughin,
Der Garten-gott dere to,
Und sait - " Oldt Hans! vile you're apout
Ve nefer can look blue. "
Den Pan blay on his Syrinx,
To de tune of Mary Blane,
" Don't gry pecause ve're out of town,
Ve're coming pack again.

" Von day you got de yolk und vhite,
De next day only shells;
Von day dey holts a council,
Und de next day - " someding else!"
Id's bopes und kings, und gotts and dings,
Oopon dis eartly ball;
Boot for me id's all von frolic,
Und a high oldt carnival!

" Rise oop, dou Odin-trafeler,
Und toorn dee to de Nort,
Wherefrom, as Bible dells dee,
Crate efil shall come fort.
Dere is mutterins in Ravenna,
Und ere long dere'll come a turn,
A real hell-bender from de land
Of Dieterich von Bern.

" Und ven der Breitmann's prototype,
Der Fictoor Manuel,
Cooms tromplin, tromplin troo de fern,
To give dis coontry hell
Und ven in La Comarca,
Der is shtorm all in de air,
Dy Gotts vill gife dee vork, mein Sohn,
Hans Breitmann shall be dere! "

For a yar will nod be ofer
Pefore de Frantsch will run,
Und de game at last be ented,
Und Italy pe won.
Und denn in roarin battle,
For hishtory so grand,
Dy banner'll lead de Uhlan spears,
All in de Frankenland.