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Long, Long Weary Day,' sung by all your pretty cousins. Well, take up the original, and translate it if you can. The current version is very fair, perhaps as good a one as can be made. But after all it is only the wrong side of the piece of tapestry,' a faded leaf- - a refraction in a cracked looking-glass. A “Scotch' version might bring us a little nearer to it; but then, after all, one must needs be Scotch born to fully appreciate it. It may be accurately done, but with exact feeling it cannot.
However, be it good or bad, I give, with all due apology, my version - and with it the original. If the English be ‘right homely,' let it be remembered that the original neither rhymes nor reasons 'in crimson,' as Friar John hath it.
How all goes rushing through my head;
I stand and think and look,
And stands there like a spook.
I played exactly so;
Des Krickle spielt verebi wie's hot,
Wo Ich noch g'spielt hab do ;
As smart as long ago.
Der Weisech' steht noch an der Tuebr
Macht Schatta ueber's Dach;
O was is des en Sach'!
The willow standing by the door
Shades the roof every bit;
O LORD! just think of it!
* Atty. Suabian, Aetti.
Die grosa un' die klena all,
The greater and the smaller are Sin' unner ener Rule ;
All under one same rule, Un des is yusht der rechte weg ;
And that is just the proper track; Wer Rules verbrecht der nemmt sie Schleg, Who breaks the rules must get a crack, Oder verlost die Schul.
Or else clear out of school.
Imwendig um der Offa 'rum,
Hocka die klene chaps ;
Sei Ohra kriega Rapps.
And in a ring around the stove,
Sit all the little chaps;
His ear must catch the raps !
S'is hart zu hocka uf so Benk
Die Fues net uf em Floor;
Un' fuehlt about right sore !
It's hard to squat so on the bench,
When feet do n't reach the floor;
And feels about right sore !
Die grossa Maid hen ausgekert
Die Buwa naus gestaabt! Zu helfa, hen a deel pretend Der Meschter hot sie naus gesend!
Die Rules hen's net erlabt.
Die Klena Maed hen ring g'spielt,
Uf sellem Wassa da ; Wann grossa Maed sin’ in der Ring — 'S is doch e' wounnervolles Ding !
Sin' grossa Buwa a'!
Die Klena all vermisst !
Hot tuechtiglich gekisst!
O wan Ich yuscht d'ra' denk!
The big girls swept the school-house out,
And tben the boys must go,
' Against the rules,' you know. The little girls in ring go round,
Their fun by th' water share ;
Big boys are always there!
The small are always missed !
My goodness! how she's kissed !
But Christmas was the jolly time,
What fun it was, I vow! We went and shut the master out, The doors and windows barred about* Master -- a present now!'
Nord hot er mightily brobirt,
Mit force zu komma nei; Un’mir hen – als er hot geklopt En Schreiwes unna naus gestopt, • Wann's seinsht dan kanscht do rei.'
And mightily the master tried
By force his way to win; But when he rapped, as if 't would fall, We hung a writing out on th' wall, 'O IF YOU CAN, CUM IN!'
Nau hot der Meschter raus gelanst
Gar Kreislich sheepish 'gukt! Appel un' Keshta, un' noch meh, S'war yusht a ment in fact recht schoe:
Mir hen's mit Luschta k slucht!
At last the master must give in,
Sheepish, with ne'er a frown; He handed apples round ’n a plate, And may be 't was n't just first-rate,
To see how 't all went down!
O wu sin' now die Schuler all,
Wo hawa do gelernt?
Deel hot der Tod geernt!
Oh! where are now those school-boys all ?
What have they learned to win?
Some Death has garnered in.
Mei Hertz schwellt mit Gedanka uf,
Bis Ich schier gar verstick!
Des Schul-haus an der Krick!
My heart beats fast with earnest thoughts,
My breath comes short and quick;
Oh! school-house on the creek !
Good bye! alt Schul-haus - echo Kreischt Good-by! old school-house, echo cries
Good-by again so quick;
And you still stand there all alone,
O school-house by the creek?
O horcht ihr Leut wo nach mir lebt,
Ich Schreib euch noch des Stick:
Des Schul-haus an der Krick!
Ye people all for whom I write,
To this my warning stick:
Of the school-house by the creek.
I regret that I am unable to give in this article, translations of the Haemweh, or ‘Home-Sickness;' and the Regebogai, or ‘Rainbow,' by the same author, which appeared in the Lancaster Guardian. The first of these poems is remarkable for a downright reality of homely home-feeling, expressed in plainest words, illustrated by word pictures, drawn from memory, with the vividness which can only result from the extremest simplicity. There is a foreshadowing of this even in the first verse:
Ich wees net was die Ursach is'-
Wees net warum ich's thu':
Der alte Haemath zu.
Ke Erbschaft un ke Geld;
So stark wie alle Welt
Wie owa schon gemelt.'
'I don't know what the reason is,
It is n't very plain;
To the old home again.
No money thence I'll bring;
As strong as every thing ;
Right glad when on the wing.'
With each succeeding verse arise fresh pictures of boyhood's olden time There is the old home through the trees; there the chimney which, when it smoked, awoke sweet longings in the boy, who was at work in the fields, for he augured by a very natural capnomancy, or 'smoke-divination,' that cakes were being baked. The red reflét of the sun, fire-like on the windows, which so often puzzled him of old, is there still; there are the poplars, but mightily grown since
'Die Mamme war ans Grandats g'west
• Mother had been to grandfather's there were trees like these ; she brought three of their twigs home with her, and said : “There, plant them here!! We did it would you believe it now those are the very same!' Another reminiscence of the mother in this poem is truly touching and beautiful.
In the ‘Rainbow,' we have the same memories of childhood, but in a livelier measure. In it the children hunt for the further end of the rainbow, believing that if they can once discover where its foot touches earth, there will lie all manner of fine golden cups, forks, and bowls. The little ones roam and ramble, but all in vain, through the clover; they return empty-handed, but get a lesson on searching for riches, with a fine moral, which for the poet at least was well worth as much as all the plate in Tiffany's show-cases.
I have heard with pleasure that Dr. Harbaugh has seriously considered the suggestion made to him by friends, that he should publish a volume of Penn. sylvania German lyrics. Should he do so, it will be something more than a literary curiosity, something more than a relic of a quaint dialect, which will soon pass away; for it will be a collection of as truly natural rural poetry, elevated to beauty by simple truthfulness, as any living poet has written.
THE SEVENTEENTH-YEAR LOCUSTS.
BY HON. G. P.
This insect has made its appearance, at different periods, in various sections of our land; and, from careful observation, exactly seventeen years after its last visit. Upon Staten Island, the surface of the earth frequently presents the appearance of a large sieve, from the innumerable holes made by the locusts, coming out of their subterranean passages to the open air. They spend almost the whole of their lives under ground, in the larvæ state, not living more than six or seven days of their seventeen years above ground, perfect or winged.
The locust takes scarcely any sustenance, as far as we can judge, after it reaches its perfect state, depositing its eggs on the ends of tender shoots of trees and shrubs, in little cavities, which they make for the purpose. When these are hatched, the larvæ or grubs, falling to the ground, bury themselves, and there live during the long period of their retirement, before a reäppear
At first they appear in a very soft state, but casting off their sloughs, the sun and air soon harden the wings, the transformation requiring only a few minutes.
There is no insect in the animal world that multiplies so rapidly as these,