Two geologists made up this ditty In the vale between Aare and Reuss; And the inn where they sang it, so witty, Was all built of boulders of gneiss.

They sang with deep feeling dramatic, To the landscape of Findling so fine; Then went like two boulders erratic, Both tumbling and stumbling with wine.

THE COMET.

Ich armer Komet in dem himmlischen Feld Wie ist's doch so windig mit mir bestellt!

Ich leb' in steten Sorgen, Mein Licht selbst muss ich borgen ...

Ich erscheine nur von Zeit zu Zeit Dann muss ich wieder fort in die Dunkelheit.

I a poor comet on high, you see, How windy and wild is my destiny!

I live in constant sorrow, My light e'en I must borrow; I only appear from time to time, Then must wander away in gloom and grime.

By lady Sun I'm ever distracted, And to her by power magnetic attracted; Yet she will not endure That I should rise up to her, I must long for her from flights afar, For, alas! I'm in fact an eccentric star.

The fixed stars all in bitter fun Declare I'm a lost and prodigal son.

They say I still go tottering Here, there, among them pottering, And where I once on my way have been Nothing but dimness and darkness are seen.

The planets regard me with scorn, and say That I always come bothering in their way.

Dame Venus and her sisters Call me one of those crazy twisters, 'His tail is too great, and his nucleus too small.

Such an ill-made night stroller's worth nothing at all.'

That I'm a scandal they cry or lisp, And call me a dreamer or Will-o'-the-wisp.

And down on earth a-squinting, I see the learned ones printing, 'He's neither firm nor settled, nor would be, Though he should spin to all eternity.'

E'en Humboldt, who handles nothing lightly, Treats me in his Cosmos far from politely, And should he write--I ask all-- And am I such a rascal?-- 'The wandering comet, much thinner than foam, With the smallest corps takes up the greatest room.'

But bide yon star-gazing spitefuls!--bide?

You don't know me yet from the innermost side.

Some day I'll catch you--curse ye?

And make you cry for mercy?

Then you'll go through me, and I'll meet your hope, For with meteors I'll smash up your telescope.

GUANO SONG.

Ich weiss eine friedliche Stelle Im schweigenden Ocean, Krystallh.e.l.l schaumet die Welle Zum Felsengestade hinan.

I know of a peaceful island Afar in the silent sea, Where around the rocky highland Pure billows are foaming free.

In the harbour no ship is resting, No sailor is on the strand; And thousands of white birds nesting, Are the guards of the lonely land.

Ever pondering pious questions, They labour right faithfully, For blessed are their digestions, And flowing like poetry.

For the birds are all 'Philosophen,'

To the princ.i.p.al precept inclined; If the body be properly open, Then all will go well with the mind.

And the children pursue more enlightened What their fathers in silence begun.

To a mountain it rises, and whitened By rays of a tropical sun.

In the rosiest light these sages Look down at the future and say, In the course of historical ages We shall fill up the ocean some day.

And the recognition of merit Is theirs in these later days, For in Suabian land we hear it When the Boblinger Rapsbauer[5] says: 'G.o.d bless you--guano sea-gull, Of the far away coast of the west: In spite of my countryman Hegel, The stuff which you make is the best.'

[Footnote 5: Boblinger Rapsbauer. A Bobling farmer who plants rape-seed. Boblingen is the Little Pedlington of Germany. It is possible that the author intimates by this name the t.i.tle of a very obscure provincial newspaper.--Translator.]

ASPHALTUM.

Bestreuet aie Haupter mit Asche, Verhaltet die Nasen euch bang, Heut giebt's bei trubfliessender Flasche Einen bituminosen Gesang.

Strew, strew all your heads with ashes, Hold your noses firmly and long; I sing by the lightning's pale flashes A wild and bituminous song.

The wind of the desert is sweeping, Like fire by the dead Dead Sea; There a Dervish appointment is keeping, With a maiden from Galilee.

'Twas ever a salty engulpher, In horrors excessively rich; In Lot's time there were lots of sulphur, And to-day it is piteous on pitch.

No washwoman comes with a bucket, No thirsty man comes with a mug; For the one who would venture to suck it Would wish that his grave had been dug.

Not a breath of a breeze is blowing, No waves on the waters fall, Though a strong smell of naphtha is flowing, They said, 'We don't mind it at all.'

Two dark brown lumps were lying Like rocks on the Dead Sea sh.o.r.e, And while tenderly loving and sighing They sat down there--to rise no more.

For the rock was pitch-naphtha which would not Allow them to stir e'en a st.i.tch, And seated in concert, they could not Rise up above concert pitch.

Then all the disaster comprising, They wailed aloud: 'Allah is great!

We stick and we stick--there's no rising, We stick and forever must wait!'

There they sat like a lost pot and kettle, Their wails o'er the wilderness pa.s.sed; They mummified little by little, And were turned to Asphaltum at last.

A little bird flew for a.s.sistance, Away to the townlet of Zoar; But benumbed it fell down in the distance, It smelt so, it fluttered no more.

And shuddering and pale as if flurried, A pilgrim procession went in-- From the smell of the benzine it hurried So fast you'd not say 't had been seen.