When ink it shall be raining, Sand fall instead of snow, Then, from my sin abstaining, I nevermore will blow.

VII.

Where 'neath the bridge the waters foam, Dame Trout was swimming downward, And met her cousin Salmon there: "How are you, river-comrade?"

"I'm well," quoth he, "but thought just now: If only lightning flashing, Down there, would strike that stripling dead, Him and his trumpet smashing!

The live-long day my fine young sir On sh.o.r.e is promenading; Rhine up, Rhine down, and never stops His hateful serenading."

Dame Trout, then smiling, answered him; "Dear cousin, you are spiteful, I, on the contrary, do find The Trumpeter delightful.

"If you, like him, could but enjoy Fair Margaretta's favour, To learn the trumpet even now, You would not deem much labour."

VIII.

I pray that no fair rose for me, By thy dear hands, be broken; A slip of holly evergreen, Be of our love the token.

The chaplet green with glossy sheen O'er the fruit good watch is keeping; And all will p.r.i.c.k who try to pick What's for another's reaping.

The gaudy rose, when Autumn comes, Finds that her beauty waneth; The holly leaf her modest green Through cold and snow retaineth.

IX.

Her fragrant balm the sweet May night O'er hill and vale is breathing, When through the shrubs with footsteps light To the castle I am stealing.

In the garden waves the linden-tree, I climb to its green bower, And from the leafy canopy My song soars to the tower: "Young Werner is the happiest youth In the German Empire dwelling, But who bewitched him thus, forsooth, In words he won't be telling.

Hurrah! is all that he will say, How lovely is the month of May, Dear love, I send thee greeting!"

With joyous trills the nightingale On the topmost bough is singing, While far o'er mountain and o'er vale The thrilling notes are ringing.

The birds are looking all about, Awaking from their slumber; From branch, and bush, and hedge burst out Glad voices without number: "Young Werner is the happiest youth In the German Empire dwelling, But who bewitched him thus, forsooth, In words he won't be telling.

Hurrah! is all that he will say, How lovely is the month of May, Dear love, I send thee greeting!"

The sounds are heard, are borne along By the river downward flowing; And from afar echoes the song, Fainter and fainter growing.

And through the air of rosy morn I see two angels winging, Like a harp's sweet tones, from Heaven borne, I hear their voices singing: "Young Werner is the happiest youth In the German Empire dwelling, But who bewitched him thus, forsooth, In words he won't be telling.

Hurrah! is all that he will say, How lovely is the month of May, Dear love, I send thee greeting!"

X.

Who's clattering from the tower To me a greeting queer?

'Tis, in his nest so cosy, My friend the stork I hear.

He's preparing for a journey, O'er sea and land will hie; The Autumn is coming quickly, So now he says good-bye.

Art right, that thou dost travel Where warmer skies do smile; From me greet fair Italia, And also Father Nile.

There in the south are waiting Far better meals for thee, Than German frogs and paddocks, Poor chafers and ennui!

Old fellow, G.o.d preserve thee, My blessing take along; For thou, at peaceful night-time, Hast often heard my song.

And if perchance thou wert not Asleep within thy nest, Thou must have seen how often With kisses I was blest.

But be not, pray, a tell-tale, Be still, old comrade mine, What business have the Moors there With lovers on the Rhine?

XI.

A settled life I did despise, And so to wandering took; When soon I found, to my surprise, A comfortable nook.

But as I lay in rest's soft lap, And hoped for long repose, There broke o'er me a thunder-clap, My stay came to a close.

Each year a different plant I see Spring up, with beauty clad; A fool's mad dance this world would be, If 'twere not quite so sad.

XII.

To life belongs a most unpleasant feature: That not a rose without sharp thorns doth grow, Much as love's yearning stirs our human nature, Through pangs of parting we at last must go.

From thy dear eyes, when I my fate was trying, A gleam of love and joy streamed forth to me: Preserve thee G.o.d! my joy seemed then undying, Preserve thee G.o.d! such joy was not to be.

I've suffered much from envy, hatred, sorrow, A weather-beaten wanderer sad and worn; I dreamt of peace and of a happy morrow, When I to thee by angel-guides was borne.

To thy dear arms for comfort I was flying, In grateful thanks I vowed my life to thee: Preserve thee G.o.d! my joy seemed then undying, Preserve thee G.o.d! such joy was not to be.

The clouds fly fast, the wind the leaves is sweeping, A heavy shower falls o'er woods and meads: The weather with my parting is in keeping, Gray as the sky my path before me leads.

Whatever may come, joy's smile or bitter sighing, Thou lovely maid! I'll think of naught but thee!

Preserve thee G.o.d! my joy seemed once undying, Preserve thee G.o.d! such joy was not for me.