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Not Too Bad

De cottage vas close py der garden gate,
It vas not mighdty hardt to find it,
A couple of gum-trees grew shoost in front,
Und a pig\shty grew shoost pehind it.
Dere vos milk-cows und sheep on der clover-flat
Und a creek vhere der vater ran,
Der misdress of all, vas der Vidder McCaul,
Und I vos her handy man.

Ach, shveet vas der ploom on der orchard-trees,
Und lofely der flowers in shpring;
But, der vidder's daughter. Yemima Ann,
She vas shveeter ash efferyting.
She valked on der ferry ground I lofed,
Und her eyes were so lofely prown,
Dat vheneffer I see dat she looked at me,
Vhy, I felt mineself top-side down.

I lofed mine life ash I lofed dat girl,
Und a vik from her tvinkling eye
Ash I helped her moundt on der old prown mare
Made me feel apout ten feet high.
Vhen she cantered home ash der sun vent down,
Und I lifted her oop to der ground,
Vhen I felt her yoomp, mine heardt vent boomp,
Und I felt apout twelfe feet round.

So I shpeaks to mineself,' I must hafe dat girl,
For mithout her I aint no use;'
So I tole her von day vhat a duck she vas,
Und she tell me I vas a coose.
Den a shearer coomed town from der Lachlan,
Pout ash tall ash a wool-shed toor,
Und he took her avay on a pullock-tray,
Und she neffer comes pack some more.

So I vent, vat you calls, ' clean off your shoomps,'
I crinds oop mine teeth und schvear;
I knocks mineself town mit a pag of shaff,
Und I picks mineself oop py mine hair.
I shvears I could hang and trown mineself,
Und fill mineself oop mit shot too;
Put, shoost vhen I run to get mine gun,
Der vidder, she tole me not to.

She said, ash she fried me some eggs for mine tea,
Und her tears shpluttered in der pan,
'Vas it not goot enough to her daughter lose,
Mithout losing her handy man?
Vas der fish not askh good vhat vas in der sea

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poem by Thomas E. Spencer
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Dot Leedle Boy

Ot's a leedle Gristmas story
Dot I told der leedle folks--
Und I vant you stop dot laughin'
Und grackin' funny jokes!--
So help me Peter-Moses!
Ot's no time for monkey-shine,
Ober I vast told you somedings
Of dot leedle boy of mine!

Ot vas von cold Vinter vedder,
Ven der snow vas all about--
Dot you have to chop der hatchet
Eef you got der sauerkraut!
Und der cheekens on der hind leg
Vas standin' in der shine
Der sun shmile out dot morning
On dot leedle boy of mine.

He vas yoost a leedle baby
Not bigger as a doll
Dot time I got acquaintet--
Ach! you ought to heard 'im squall!--
I grackys! dot's der moosic
Ot make me feel so fine
Ven first I vas been marriet--
Oh, dot leedle boy of mine!

He look yoost like his fader!--
So, ven der vimmen said,
'Vot a purty leedle baby!'
Katrina shake der head. . . .
I dink she must 'a' notice
Dot der baby vas a-gryin',
Und she cover up der blankets
Of dot leedle boy of mine.

Vel, ven he vas got bigger,
Dot he grawl und bump his nose,
Und make der table over,
Und molasses on his glothes--
Dot make 'im all der sveeter,--
So I say to my Katrine,
'Better you vas quit a-shpankin'
Dot leedle boy of mine!'

No more he vas older
As about a dozen months
He speak der English language
Und der German--bote at vonce!
Und he dringk his glass of lager

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poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Schneider Strauss

I vas all der country hunting for a man I vants to meet,
I vas bursting me to schlog him on der cop.
If mine hand I vonce can on him lay, I'll hit him mit mine feet
‘Till he'll neffer know vhich side of him vas top.
He vas "Dandy Pat from Ballarat", mit mighty gifts of gab,
Und he got me to insure me for mine house.
Put, py shinks, if I comes down on him, I'll schlog him mit a schlab
Till he von't some more tricks play mit Schneider Strauss.

I vas built mine house mit packing cases, roofed him in mit tin,
Mit a gutter for der vater, und a shpout;
Und suppose some leetle cracks der vas, vat let der vind come in,
Dere vas lots of pigger vons to let it out.
So efery night I drunk mine pipe und smoked mine lager peer,
Und I felt shoost most ash happy ash a mouse;
Till von efening apout two o'clock, a voice falls on mine ear,
Und it said, "Vas you dat man called Schneider Strauss?"

Und der voice vas dat insurance man. He coomed und sat him down
On a candle box, und talked like eferythings;
Py der vay der vords fell out of him, you'd bet a half-a-crown
Dat his tongue vas on a see-saw vorked mit shprings.
Und he talked apout insurances, und told me I could get
Lots of money if a fire purnt down mine house,
So I paid him down two pound ker-splash, und says to him,
"You bet,
Dat you von't find no plowflies catch on Schneider Strauss.

Dat insurance man he gafe me, vat you call, "a polisee",
Und I nearly laughed mine sides out mit der yoke.
In apout a veek, or sefen days - mine house -
Oh, vere vas he?
He vas gone; und dere vas notings left but smoke.
So der Gompany I vent to see, to get mine leetle bill,
Und I promised me a yolly big carouse;
But like forty tousand tons of boulders falling down a hill,
Did der troubles tumble down on Schneider Strauss.

Vhen der Gompany I seen he asked me vhat I was apout?
Und I told him I vas coomed to get some tin.
Put, he called a pig policeman und shouted "Roon him out."
Dey put me on a canvas suit, dey cut me off mine hair,
In some vater cold like ice, dey made me souse;
Und der shtones I vas preaking opp for six months, you can schvear
Dey vas not so bad proke up as Schneider Strauss.

Und mine house vas gone to plazes, und mine money vas gone too;
Dat insurance man - vhere he vas - who can tell?
Und mine polisee - mine lots of tin - vas gone clean oop der flue.
It vas turned to shmoke, und dat vas gone ash well.

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poem by Thomas E. Spencer
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Breitmann In Forty-Eight

DERE woned once a studente,
All in der Stadt Paris,
Whom jeder der ihn kennte,
Der rowdy Breitmann hiess.
He roosted in de rue La Harpe,
Im Luxembourg Hotel,
'Twas shoost in anno '48,
Dat all dese dings pefel.

Boot he who vouldt go hoontin now
To find dat rue La Harpe,
Moost hafe oongommon shpecdagles,
Und look darnation sharp.
For der Kaisar und his Hausmann
Mit hauses made so vree,
Dere roon shoost now a Bouleverse
Vhere dis shdreet used to pe.

In dis Hotel de Luxembourg,
A vild oldt shdory say,
A shtudent vonce pring home a dame,
Und on de nexter day,
He pooled a ribbon from her neck-
Off fell de lady's het;
She'd trafelled from de guillotine,
Und valked de city - deadt.

Boot Breitmann nefer cared himself
If dis vas falsch or drue,
I kess he hat mit lifin gals
Pout quite enough to do.
Und Februar vas gomin,
Ganz revolutionnaire,
Und vhere der Teufel had vork on hand,
Der Hans vas alvays dere.

Und darker grew de beople's brows,
No Banquet could dey raise,
So dey shtood und shvore at gorners,
Or dey singed de Marseillaise.
Und here und dere a crashin sound
Like forcin shutters ran,
Und boorstin gun-schmidts' vindows in
Hard vorked der Breitemann.

He helped to howl Les Girondins,
To cheer de beople's hearts;
He maket dem bild parricades
Mit garriages und garts.
Vhen a bretty maiden sendinel

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poem by Charles Godfrey Leland
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Yawcob's Dribdlations

Maybe dot you don'd rememper,
Eighdeen — dwendy years ago, How I dold aboudt mine Yawcob —
Dot young rashkell, don'd you know, Who got schicken-box und measles;
Filled mine bipe mit Limburg scheeze; Cut mine cane up indo dhrum-schticks,
Und blay all sooch dricks as dhese.
Yell! dhose times dhey vas been ofer,
Und dot son off mine, py shings! Now vas taller as hees fader,
Und vas oup to all sooch dhings Like shimnastic dricks und pase-pall;
Und der oder day he say Dot he boxes mit " adthledics,"
Somevheres ofer on Back Bay.
Times vas deeferent, now, I dold you,
As vhen he vas been a lad; Dhen Katrine she make hees drowsers
Vrom der oldt vones off hees dad; Dhey vas cut so full und baggy
Dot id dook more as a fool To find oudt eef he vas going,
Or vas coming home vrom school.
Now, dhere vas no making ofer
Off mine clothes to make a suit For dot poy — der times vas exchanged;

"Der leg vas on der oder boot;" For vhen hees drowsers dhey gets dhin,

Und sort off "schlazy" roundt der knee, Dot Mrs. Strauss she dake der sceessors
Und she cuts dhem down for me.
Shnst der oder day dot Yawcob
Gife me von elecdric shock, Vhen he say he vants fife-hundord
To invesht in railroadt schtock. Dhen I dell him id vas beddher
Dot he leaf der schtocks alone, Or some feller dot vas schmardter
Dake der meat imd leaf der bone.
Und vhen I vas got oxcited,
Und say he get "echwiped" und fooled, Dheri he say he haf a "pointer"
Yrom soom friendts off Sage und Gould; Und dot he vas on " rock bottom;"
Had der "inside track" on "Atch "
Dot vas too mooch for hees fader,
Und I coom oup to der scratch.
Dhen in bolitics he dabbles,
Und all qvesdions, great und schmall, Make no deeferent to dot Yawcob —
For dot poy he knows id all. Und he say dot dhose oldt fogies
Must be laid oup on der shelf, Und der governors und mayors
Should pe young men — like himself.
Yell! I vish I vas dransborted
To dhose days off long ago, Vhen dot schafer beat der milk-ban

Und schkydoodled droo der schnow. I could schtand der mumbs nnd measles,

Und der ruckshuns in der house; Budt mine presendt dribulations
Vas too mooch for Meester Strauss.

poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Dee Coming Man

I Vant some invormashun, shust so qvickly vot
I can, How I shall pring mine Yawcob oup to been der
coming man, For efery day id seem to me der brosbect look
der harder To make dot coming man imbrove ubon dot going
fader. 'Tvas beddher he vas more like me, a Deutscher
blain und rude, As to been abofe hees peesnis und grown oup to
been a dude.
I doil'd oxshbect dot poy off mine a Vashington
to be, Und schop mit hadchets all aronndt ubon mine
abblcdree, So he can let der coundtry know he echmardter
vas- as I, Und got scheap adverdising dot he don'd could
dell a lie : Mine Yawcob lets der drees alone undil der fruit
dhey bear, Und dhen dot feller he looks oudt und gets der
lion's share.
Some say 'tvas beddher dot you teach der young
ideas to shoot; Veil, I dink dis aboudt id : dot advice id vas no
goot! Dot poy vonce dook hees broder oudt nnd dhey
blay Yilliam Tell, Budt Yawcob vas no shooter —he don'd do id
pooty veil; Dot arrow don'd go droo der core, budt id vent
pooty near — Shust near enough to miss id und go droo hees
broder's ear.
He dravels mit hees buysickle in efery kind off
redder, Und dough he vas a demperance poy, somedimes
he dakes a "header": I don'd know shust oxactly vot dot vas—'tis vorse
as bier— Shust like he shtrike a cyglone und valk righdt
off on his ear ! I ask von time aboudt id, budt dot poy he only
grumble, Und say I beddhcr try id vonce, dhen maybe I
vould "tumble."
Dot Yawcob says dot ve vas boor, vmd he vants
to be richer, Und dot der coming man must been a virsd-glass
pase-pall pitcher ; He say he must be "shtriking oudt und try nnd
"make a hit," Und dells me I vas "off mine pase" vhen I makes
fun off it; Vhen I say he soon must baddle hees canoe "oudt
on der schwim," He say dot von off Hanlan's shells vas goot
enough for him.
Dot Shakesbeer say aboudt der son dot's brofligate
und vild : "How sharper as a serpent's thanks vas been der
toothless shild!" (I got dot leedle dwisted; I mean dot thankless
youth He cuts hees poor oldt fader more as a serpent's
tooth.) Und dhen der broverb dells us dot der shild he
must obey, Und dot eef you should shpare der rod you shpoil
him righdt avay.
Vell, Yawcob he vas pooty goot—I guess I don'd
gomblain, I somedimes vish, mineself, dot I vas been a poy
again. I lets him blay mit pase-pall, und dake headers
vhile he can. I prings him oup mit kindness, und I risk der
coming man. Let neighbor Pfeiffer use der shtick, vhile Otto
howls und dances ; I'll shpoil der rod und shpare der shild, I dink,
und dake der shances.

poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Vas Marriage a Failure?

Vas marriage a failure? "Veil, now, dot depends Altogeddher on how you look at it, mine friends. Like dhose double-horse teams dot you see at
der races,
It depends pooty much on der pair in der traces; Eef dhey don'd pool togeddher righdt off at der
shtart, Ten dimes oudt off nine dhey van beddher apart.
Vas marriage a failure? Der vote vas in doubt; Dhose dot's oudt vould be in, dhose dot's in
vould be oudt:
Der man mit oxberience, good looks und dash, Gets a vife mit some fife hundord dousand in
cash,
Budt, after der honeymoon, vhere vas der honey? She haf der oxberience — he haf der money.
Vas marriage a failure? Eef dot vas der case, Vot vas to pecome off der whole human race? Vot you dink dot der oldt "Pilgrim fader?
vould say, "Who came in dot Sunflower to oldt Plymouth
Bay,
To see der fine coundtry dis peoples haf got, Und dhen hear dhem ask sooch conondhrums
as dot?
Vas marriage a failure ? Shust go, ere you tell,
To dot Bunker Mon Ilillument, vhere Varren fell;
Dink off Yashington, Franklin, nnd "Honest Old Abe" —
Dhey vas all been aroundt since dot first Plymouth babe.
I vas only a Deutscher, budt I tells you vot!
I pelief, every dime, in sooch "failures" as dot.
Vas marriage a failure? I ask mine Katrine, Und she look off me so dot I feels pooty mean. Dhen she say: "Meester Strauss, shust come
here eef you blease," Und she take me vhere Yawcob und leedle
Loweeze By dheir shnug trundle-bed vas shust saying
dheir prayer, Und she say, mit some pride: "" Dhere vas no
failures dhere!"

poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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"No Shildren In Der House."

Vagation dime vas coom again,
Vhen dhere vas no more shgool; I goes to boardt, der coundtry oudt,

Vhere id vas nice und cool. I dakes Katrina und Loweeze,

Und leedle Yawcob Strauss; Budt at der boarding-house dhey dakes
" No shildren in der house.
I dells you vot! Some grass don'd grow
Under old Yawcob's feet Undil ve gets a gouple-a-miles
Or so vay down der shtreet.
I foundt oudt all I vanted—
For de resd I don'd vould care —
Dot boarding-blace vas nix for me Yhen dhere been no shildren dhere.

Vot vas der hammocks, und der shvings,
Grokay, und dings like dhese, Und der hoogleperry bicnics,
Mitoudt Yawcob und Loweeze? It vas von shdrange conondhrum,
Dot vas too mooch tor Strauss, How all dhose beople shtandt id
Mit no shildren in der house.
"Oh, vot vas all dot eardthly bliss, Und vot vas man's soocksess;

Und vot vas various kindt off dings, Und vot vas habbincss?"
Dot's vot Hans Breitmann ask, von dime-
Dhey all vas embty soundt! Dot eardthly bliss vas nodings
Vhen dhere vas no shildren roundt.
Vhen "man's soockscss," down here pelow,
Und "eardthly bliss" vas past, Und in dot beddher blace abofe

Ve seek a home at last; Oh, may dhose "Gates off Paradise"

Shving open far und vide, Und ve see dhose "Heafenly mansions"

Mit der shildren all inside.

poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Der Drummer

Who puts oup at der pest hotel,
Und dakes his oysders on der schell,
Und mit der frauleins cuts a schwell

Der drummer.

Who vas it gomes indo mine schtore,
Drows down his pundles on der vloor,
Und nefer schtops to shut der door!

Der drummer.

Who dakes me py der handt, und say,
"Hans Pfeiffer, how you vas to-day?"
Und goes for peesness righdt avay?

Der drummer.

Who shpreads his zamples in a trice,
Und dells me, "Look, und see how nice"?
Und says I gets "der bottom price"?

Der drummer.

Who dells how sheap der goots vas bought,
Mooch less as vot I gould imbort,
But lets dem go as he vas "short"?

Der drummer.

Who says der tings vas eggstra vine, —
"Vrom Sharmany, ubon der Rhine," —
Und sheats me den dimes oudt off nine?

Der drummer.

Who varrants all der goots to suit
Der gustomers ubon his route,
Und ven dey gomes dey vas no goot?

Der drummer.

Who gomes aroundt ven I been oudt,
Drinks oup mine bier, and eats mine kraut,
Und kiss Katrina in der mout'?

Der drummer.

Who, ven he gomes again dis vay,
Vill hear vot Pfeiffer has to say,

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Breitmann In Paris

DER teufel's los in Bal Mabille,
Dere's hell-fire in de air,
De fiddlers can't blay noding else
Boot Orphee aux Enfers:
Vot makes de beoples howl mit shoy?
Da capo - Bravo! - bis!!
It's a Deutscher aus Amerika:
Hans Breitmann in Paris.

Dere's silber toughts vot might hafe peen,
Dere's golden deeds vot must:
Der Hans ish come to Frankenland
On one eternal bust.
Der same old rowdy Argonaut
Vot hoont de same oldt vleece,
A hafin all de foon dere ish-
Der Breitmann in Paris.

Mit a gal on eider shoulder
A holdin py his beard,
He tantz de Cancan, sacrament!
Dill all das Volk vas skeered.
Like a roarin hippopatamos,
Mit a kangarunic shoomp,
Dey feared he'd smash de Catacombs,
Each dime der Breitmann bump.

De pretty liddle cocodettes
Lofe efery dings ish new,
'D'ou vient il donc ce grand M'sieu?
O sacre nom de Dieu!'
In fain dey kicks deir veet on high,
And sky like vlyin geese,
Dey can not kick de hat afay
From Breitmann in Paris.

O vhere vas id der Breitmann life?
Oopon de Rond Point gay,
Vot shdreet lie shoost pehind his house?
La rue de Rabelais.
Aroundt de corner Harper's shtands
Vhere Yankee drinks dey mill,
Vhile shdraight ahet, agross de shdreet,
Der lies de Bal Mabille.

Id's all along de Elysees,
Id's oop de Boulevarce,
He's sampled all de weinshops,
Und he's vinked at efery garce.
Dou schveet plack-silken Gabrielle,

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poem by Charles Godfrey Leland
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Yawcob Strauss

I Haf von funny leedle poy,
Vot gomes schust to mine knee;
Der queerest schap, der Greatest rogue,
As efer you dit see.
He runs, und schumps, and schmashes dings
In all barts off der house:
But vot off dot? he vas mine son,
Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.
He get der measles und der mumbs,
Und eferyding dot's oudt;
He sbills mine glass off lager bier,
Foots schnuff indo mine kraut.

He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese,-
Dot vas der roughest chouse:
I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy
But leedle Yawcob Strauss.
He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum,
Und cuts mine cane in dwo,
To make der schticks to beat it mit,
Mine cracious, dot vas drue!

I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart,
He kicks oup sooch a touse:
But nefer mind; der poys vas few
Like dot young Yawcob Strauss.
He asks me questions sooch as dese:
Who baints mine nose so red?
Who vas it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt
Vrom der hair ubon mine hed?

Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp
Vene'er der glim I douse.
How gan I all dose dings eggsblain
To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss ?
I somedimes dink I schall go vild
Mit sooch a grazy poy,
Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest,
Und beaceful dimes enshoy;

But ven he vas ashleep in ped,
So guiet as a mouse,
I prays der Lord," Dake anyding,
But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss."

poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Kaiser and Co. Or Hoch der Kaiser

[Being Wilhelm der Grosser's estimate of himself and partner, translated from the original Hoch-deutsch.]

Der Kaiser auf der Vaterland
Und Gott on high all dings gommand,
Ve two! Ach! don'd you understandt?
Meinself -- und Gott.

He reigns in Heafen, und always shall,
Und mein own Embire don'd vas small;
Ein noble bair, I dink you call
Meinself -- und Gott.

While some men sing der power divine,
Mein soldiers sing der "Wacht am Rhein,"
Und drink der healt in Rhenish wein,
Auf me -- und Gott.

Dere's France dot swaggers all aroundt,
She ausgespieldt -- she's no aggoundt,
To mooch ve dinks she don't amoundt:
Meinself -- und Gott.

She vill not dare to fight again,
But if she should, I'll show her blain
Dot Elsass und (in French) Lorraine
Are Mein -- und Gott's.

Von Bismarck was a man auf might,
Und dought he vas glean oud auf sight,
But ach! he vas nicht goot to fight
Mit me -- und Gott.

Ve knock him like ein man auf sdraw,
Ve let him know whose vill vas law,
Und dot ve don'd vould sdandt his jaw,
Meinself -- und Got.

Ve send him oudt in big disgrace,
Ve gif him insuldt to his face,
Und put Caprivi in his place,
Meinself -- und Gott.

Und ven Caprivi get svelled headt,
Ve very brombtly on him set,
Und toldt him to get vp and get --
Meinself -- und Gott.

Dere's Grandma dinks she's nicht shmall beer,
Mit Boers und dings she interfere;

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poem by Alexander MacGregor Rose
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Verbatim Veracity Vision Voyage Visiting Verlaine's Virid Verses

Verbatim Veracity Vision Voyage Visiting Verlaine's Virid Verses

Key to my bliss, I’d kiss proud breasts and shapely hips,
Accept my heart so great which just for you does beat,
Refuse to [t]urn my fate with spurning fingertips
ENchanting nymph, fair Miss, receive gifts soft and sweet.

Know each day of the week there's only you to praise
As into April March stands herald to the Spring
Represent March Mars me, in you may April ph[r]ase
ENdearment, Venus speak, bestow heart, shared joy [b]ring.

Kismet come unto me as perfumed fresh, and soft,
All ready to caress from top to toe with skill
Redressing mast you bless between two hands, - aloft
Endowment’s flag flies free, responds as vessels fill.

Kiss met on your pert breast jerks, perks up, celebrates
As bow to complement your violin, in tune,
REsponds to siren song, which everywise soul sates
Now zephyr, tempest now, - all wavelength’s ‘neath Love's moon.

Knocked skittles by each kiss of unexpected power
Afford broadsword repose, whose heart is subjugate,
RElax not yet, fair rose, I'll rise again this hour,
Need no balm, Cialis, - your touch much more await.

Know, too, before fair friend we met life rhymed with blight,
A weary soul and sad had travelled lone, awry.
REgrets fast past, lets gad, you’re godsend, trip’s delight -
Nirvana, journey’s end, safe berth, rebirth, home dry.

King I and you my Queen, no jealousy unjust
All life shall heaven sent shine bright should life we share,
REveal accomplishment whose story spurns Death’s dust,
Nestled in peace serene, at ease beyond compare.

Knit close to you my fate is promised happiness
As in my hand your hand is touched by osmosis
REad oasis dreamland of infinite softness
Now we’ll anticipate voluptuous peace and bliss.

Knight fair though head in air, whose muse burns bright for you
Alwaits through night and day if so should be your choice,
REmains, soul clear, to play life's dreams at last come true.
No pair such fruits could share, should you lend me your voice…

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Vision Vérité Voyage Vers Vers Verts Verlaine

Vision Vérité Voyage Vers Vers Verts Verlaine

Voici vos fruits chou fleur aux seins ronds, aux belles hanches,
et voici mon grand coeur, qui ne bat que pour vous.
ne le déchirez pas avec vos mains si blanches,
Qu’à vos yeux bleus ces beaux cadeaux vous semblent doux !

Lundi au Vendredi, puis Samedi, Dimanche
dès ce jour du Printemps, Mars, Avril se confondent,
moi, Mars, je suis aussi, en vous Avril s’épanche, -
le karma réunit l’esprit clair, cœur profond.

Vous arrivez ouverte, encore parfumée,
prête à me caresser des pieds au cou dûment,
souffrez que ma fatigue entre vos mains dressée
répond aux doux instants qui la délasseront.

Vers votre jeune sein je viens faire la fête, -
l’archet dressé du corps à votre violon
s’accorde – un doux refrain pouvant à la tempête
virer pourtant portant l’amour vers l’ultra son.

Sonné par vos baisers – puissance insoupçonnée -
laissez moi m’apaiser après votre conquête.
Ne vous reposez pas, il faut encore oser
pour panser chaque plaie du Temps qui toujours guète!

Avant de rencontrer votre tendre reflet
mon âme voyageait trop triste et inquiète,
en vous se compléter – voyage terminé –
permet de se poser …ainsi prend fin ma quête.

Souhaitant vous chérir sans jamais renchérir
à travers arguments dictés par jalousie, -
et vous quel avenir voulez-vous voir venir
en prose, en vers rimants, où l’harmonie sourit?

Ensemble le destin au bonheur est promis,
ma main dans votre main, - l’osmose et le toucher, -
j’aspire aux lendemains aux douceurs infinies,
où tout respire enfin en calme et volupté.

Car votre beau de l’air exquis et si lyrique
ce soir et pour toujours - si vous le choisissez, -
pour un essor hors pair où tout est idyllique,
attend ma récompense – une réponse où les

vœux partagés seront couronnés de bonheur,

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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He Gets Dhere Shust Dek Same!

Oldt AEsop wrote a fable, vonce,
Aboudt a boasting hare Who say : "Vhen dhere vas racing

You can alvays find me dhere!" Und how a tortoise raced init him,

Und shtopped hees leedle game. Und say : "Eef I don'd been so shpry,
I gets dhere shust der same!"
Dot vas der cases eferyvhere;
In bolidics und trade, By bersbiration off der brow

Vas how soocksess vas made. A man may somedime "shdrike id rich,"

Und get renown und fame, Budt dot bersbiration feller, too,
He gets dhere shust der same.
Der girl dot makes goot beeskits,
Und can vash und iron dings, Maybe don'd been so lofely
As dot girl mit dimondt rings; Budt vhen a vife vas vanted

Who vas id dot's to blame Eef dot girl mitoudt der shewels

Should get dhere shust der same?
Dot schap dot leafes hees peesnis, Und hangs roundt "Bucket Shops,"
To make den tollars oudt off von, Vhen grain und oil shtock drops;

May go avay vrom dhere, soinedimes, Mooch poorer as he came.

"Der mills off God grind shlowly"— Budt dhey get dhere shust der same.

Dhen neffer mindt dhose mushroom schaps
Dot shpring oup in a day; Dhose repudations dhey vas made

By vork, und not by blay. Shust poot your shoulder to der vheel,

Eef you vould vin a name, Und eef der "Vhite House needs you —

You vill get dhere shust der same.

poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Dot Baby Off Mine

Mine cracious! mine cracious! shust look here und see
A Deutscher so habby as habby can pe!
Der beoples all dink dot no prains I haf got;
Vas grazy mit trinking, or someding like dot:
Id vasn't pecause I trinks lager und vine;
Id vas all on aggount off dot baby off mine.

Dot schmall leedlc vellow I dells you vas qveer;
Not mooch pigger roundt as a goot glass off peer;
Mit a bare-footed hed, und nose but a schpeck;
A mout dot goes most to der pack off his neck;
Und his leedle pink toes mit der rest all combine
To gif sooch a charm to dot baby off mine.

I dells you dot baby vas von off der poys,
Und beats leedle Yawcob for making a noise.
He shust has pecun to shbeak goot English too;
Says " Mamma" und " Papa," und somedimes "Ah, goo!"
You don'd find a baby den dimes oudt off nine
Dot vas qvite so schmart as dot baby off mine.

He grawls der vloor ofer, und drows dings aboudt,
Und poots eferyding he can find in his mout;
He dumbles der shtairs down, und falls vrom his chair,
Und gifes mine Katrina von derrible sckare.
Mine hair shtands like shquills on a mat borcubine
Ven I dinks off dose pranks off dot baby off mine.

Dere vas someding, you pet, I don'd likes pooty vell,
To hear in der nighdt dimes dot young Deutscher yell,
Und dravel der ped-room midout many clo'es,
Vhile der chills down der shpine off mine pack quickly goes:
Does leedle shimnasdic dricks vasn't so fine
Dot I cuts oup at nighdt mit dot baby off mine.

Vell, dese leedle schafers vas going to pe men,
Und all off dese droubles vill peen ofer den:
Dey vill vear a vhite shirt-vront inshtead off a bib,
Und vouldn't got tucked oup at nighdt in deir crib.
Vell, vell, ven I'm feeble, und in life's decline,
May mine oldt age pe cheered py dot baby off mine!

poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Windigo

Go easy wit' de paddle, an' steady wit' de
oar
Geev rudder to de bes' man you got among
de crew,
Let ev'ry wan be quiet, don't let dem sing no
more
W'en you see de islan' risin' out of Grande
Lac Manitou
Above us on de sky dere, de summer cloud
may float
Aroun' us on de water de ripple never show,
But somet'ing down below us can rock de
stronges' boat,
W'en we 're comin' near de islan' of de
spirit Windigo!

De carcajou may breed dere, an' otter sweem
de poole
De moosh-rat mak' de mud house, an' beaver
buil' hees dam
An' beeges' Injun hunter on all de Tête de
Boule
Will never set hees trap dere from spring
to summer tam.

But he 'll bring de fines' presen' from upper
St. Maurice
De loup marin an' black-fox from off de
Hodson Bay
An' hide dem on de islan' an' smoke de pipe
of peace
So Windigo will help heem w'en he travel
far away.

We shaintee on dat islan' on de winter seexty-
nine
If you look you see de clearin' aroun' de
Coo Coo Cache,
An' pleasan' place enough too among de spruce
an' pine
If foreman on de shaintee is n't Cyprien
Palache.

Beeg feller, alway watchin' on hees leetle
weasel eye,
De gang dey can't do not'ing but he see dem
purty quick
Wit' hees 'Hi dere, w'at you doin' ?' ev'ry
tam he 's passin' by
An' de bad word he was usin' , wall! it offen

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poem by William Henry Drummond
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Pauvres vieilles cités

Pauvres vieilles cités par les plaines perdues,
Dites de quel grand plan de gloire,
Vers la vie humble et dérisoire,
Toutes, vous voilà descendues.

Vous ne comprenez plus vos hauts beffrois en deuil,
Ni ce que disent aux nuées
Tant de pierres destituées
De leur ancien et bel orgueil,

Vos carrefours, vos grand'places et votre port,
Tout est muet et léthargique ;
Tout semble aller à pas logiques
Vers l'horizon, où luit la mort.

Seule, quand le marché aligne au jour levé,
Sur le trottoir, ses éventaires,
Un peu de vie hebdomadaire
Se cabre aux joints de vos pavés.

Ou bien, quand la kermesse et ses cortèges d'or
Mènent leur ronde autour des rues,
L'émoi des foules accourues
Vous fait revivre une heure encor.

Vos moeurs sont pareilles à vos petits jardins :
Buissons corrects, calmes verdures,
Mais une odeur de moisissure
Séjourne en leurs recoins malsains.

Vos gestes sont prudents, mesquins et routiniers,
Vous ne penchez sur vos négoces
Que des yeux mornes ou féroces,
Qui ne comptent que par deniers.

Vos cerveaux sans révolte et vos coeurs sans fierté
Se complaisent aux moindres choses,
Et de pauvres apothéoses
Font tressaillir vos vanités.

Vous ne produisez plus ni communiers ni gueux
Et vivez à la dérobée
Des miettes d'ombre et d'or tombées
Du festin rouge des aïeux.

Pourtant, si triste et long que soit votre déclin,
Notre rêve ne veut pas croire
Que plus jamais la belle gloire
Ne bondira de vos tremplins.

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poem by Emile Verhaeren
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Aux Freres De Pange

Aujourd'hui qu'au tombeau je suis prêt à descendre,
Mes amis, dans vos mains je dépose ma cendre.
Je ne veux point, couvert d'un funèbre linceul,
Que les pontifes saints autour de mon cercueil,
Appelés aux accents de l'airain lent et sombre,
De leur chant lamentable accompagnent mon ombre,
Et sous des murs sacrés aillent ensevelir
Ma vie et ma dépouille, et tout mon souvenir.
Eh! qui peut sans horreur, à ses heures dernières,
Se voir au loin périr dans des mémoires chères?
L'espoir que des amis pleureront notre sort
Charme l'instant suprême et console la mort.
Vous-même choisirez à mes jeunes reliques
Quelque bord fréquenté des pénates rustiques,
Des regards d'un beau ciel doucement animé,
Des fleurs et de l'ombrage, et tout ce que j'aimai.
C'est là près d'une eau pure, au coin d'un bois tranquille,
Qu'à mes mânes éteints je demande un asile,
Afin que votre ami soit présent à vos yeux,
Afin qu'au voyageur amené dans ces lieux
La pierre, par vos mains de ma fortune instruite,
Raconte en ce tombeau quel malheureux habite;
Quels maux ont abrégé ses rapides instants;
Qu'il fut bon, qu'il aima, qu'il dut vivre longtemps.
Ah! le meurtre jamais n'a souillé mon courage.
Ma bouche du mensonge ignora le langage,
Et jamais, prodiguant un serment faux et vain,
Ne trahit le secret recélé dans mon sein.
Nul forfait odieux, nul remords implacable
Ne déchire mon âme inquiète et coupable.
Vos regrets la verront pure et digne de pleurs,
Oui, vous plaindrez sans doute, en mes longues douleurs,
Et ce brillant midi qu'annonçait mon aurore,
Et ces fruits dans leur germe éteints avant d'éclore,
Que mes naissantes fleurs auront en vain promis.
Oui, je vais vivre encore au sein de mes amis.
Souvent à vos festins qu'égaya ma jeunesse,
Au milieu des éclats d'une vive allégresse,
Frappés d'un souvenir, hélas! amer et doux,
Sans doute vous direz: 'Que n'est-il avec nous!'

Je meurs. Avant le soir j'ai fini ma journée.
A peine ouverte au jour, ma rose s'est fanée.
La vie eut bien pour moi de volages douceurs;
Je les goûtais à peine, et voilà que je meurs.
Mais, oh! que mollement reposera ma cendre,
Si parfois, un penchant impérieux et tendre
Vous guidant vers la tombe où je suis endormi,
Vos yeux en approchant pensent voir leur ami!
Si vos chants de mes feux vont redisant l'histoire;

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poem by Andre Marie de Chenier
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La Lys

Lys tranquille, Lys douce et lente
Dont le vent berce, aux bords, les herbes et les plantes,
Vous entourez nos champs et nos hameaux, là-bas,
De mille et mille méandres,
Pour mieux tenir serrée, entre vos bras,
La Flandre.

Et vous allez et revenez,
Sans angoisse et sans marée,
Automne, hiver, été, printemps ;
Et vous avez toujours le temps,
Comme les gens de nos contrées.

Et votre cours s'en va vers les pauvres maisons
Et les hauts clochers blancs, dont les quatre abat-sons
Jettent vers le jour proche,
Chaque matin, la voix des cloches ;
Et les fermes et les jardins et les prés roux,
Dont vous baignez le bout,
Possèdent tous, pour venir jusqu'à vous,
Un escalier fait dans la terre ;
Et servantes et lavandières
En descendent les vacillants degrés de pierre,
Et l'on entend leurs voix chanter de clos en clos,
Et retentir, soudain, dans les hameaux,
L'écho,
Quand le bruit flasque et reversé de seaux
Tombe dans l'eau.

Sur vos digues, tranquillement, au pied des saules,
Un vieux pêcheur têtu maintient, droite, sa gaule,
Bâton d'ombre, fixe et mouvant, sur les flots clairs ;
Des canards blancs, au bec jaune et lustré, s'avancent,
Voguent et tout à coup happent les cressons verts
Qui décorent les bords sinueux de vos anses.

Et de rares chalands passent en vos lueurs,
De lents et lourds chalands traînés par les haleurs,
Dont la corde parfois à vos buissons s'accroche,
Tandis qu'au gouvernail, qu'il manoeuvre des reins,
Nonchalamment, la pipe aux dents, les mains en poches,
Le batelier s'appuie et fredonne un refrain.

Lys tranquille et familiale,
On vous adore au fond des bourgs et des hameaux ;
Vous reflétez leurs deuils et côtoyez leurs maux,
Tout comme, aux temps joyeux, vous mirez dans vos eaux
Les cortèges, les guirlandes et les drapeaux
Des kermesses paroissiales.

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poem by Emile Verhaeren
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The Example of Vertu : Cantos VIII.-XIV.

Capitalum VIII.

Dame Sapyence taryed a lytell whyle
Behynd the other saynge to Dyscrecyon
And began on her to laugh and smyle
Axynge her how I stode in condycyon
Well she sayd in good perfeccyon
But best it is that he maryed be
For to eschewe all yll censualyte
I knowe a lady of meruelous beaute
Spronge out of hyghe and noble lynage
Replete with vertue and full of bounte
Whiche vnto youth were a good maryage
For she is comen of royall apparage
But herde it wyll be to gete her loue
Without youth frayltye do sore reproue
I kneled downe than vpon my kne
Afore dame Sapyence with humble chere
Besechynge her of me to haue pyte
And also Dyscrecyon her syster dere
Than dame Sapyence came me nere
Saynge youth wyll ye haue a wyfe
And her to loue durynge her lyfe
Ye madame that wolde I fayne
Yf that she be both fayre and bryght
I wyll her loue euer more certayne
And pleas her alway with all my myght
Of suche a persone wolde I haue a syght
With all my herte now at this houre
Wolde to god I had so fayre a floure
Than sayd dyscrecyon there is a kynge
Dwellynge fer hens in a fayre castell
Of whome I oft haue herd grete talkynge
Whiche hath a doughter as I you tell
I trowe that youth wyll lyke her well
She is both good eke fayre and pure
As I report me vnto dame Nature
But yf that youth sholde her go seke
Ye must syster than hym well indue
With your grete power so good and meke
That he all frayltye may eschue
For by the way it wyll oft pursue
On hym by flatery and grete temptacyon
That shall brynge hym in tribulacyon
As for that sayd she he shall not care
For he shall theym sone ouercome
And of theyr flatery ryght well beware
For I to hym shall gyue grete wysedome
Theyr dedes to withstande & make theym dōme
Wherfore dere syster as I you pray

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poem by Stephen Hawes
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