| |
Translated by C. T. Brooks
WHICH way to Weinsberg? neighbor, say! | |
| ’T is, sure, a famous city: | |
| It must have cradled, in its day, | |
| Full many a maid of noble clay, | |
| And matrons, wise and witty; | 5 |
| And if ever marriage should happen to me, | |
| A Weinsberg dame my wife shall be. | |
| |
| King Conrad once, historians say, | |
| Fell out with this good city; | |
| So down he came, one luckless day,— | 10 |
| Horse, foot, dragoons,—in stern array,— | |
| And cannon,—more ’s the pity! | |
| Around the walls the artillery roared, | |
| And bursting bombs their fury poured. | |
| |
| But naught the little town could scare; | 15 |
| Then, red with indignation, | |
| He bade the herald straight repair | |
| Up to the gates, and thunder there | |
| The following proclamation: | |
| “Rascals! when I your town do take, | 20 |
| No living thing shall save its neck!” | |
| |
| Now, when the herald’s trumpet sent | |
| These tidings through the city, | |
| To every house a death-knell went; | |
| Such murder-cries the hot air rent | 25 |
| Might move the stones to pity. | |
| Then bread grew dear, but good advice | |
| Could not be had for any price. | |
| |
| Then, “Woe is me!” “O misery!” | |
| What shrieks of lamentation! | 30 |
| And “Kyrie Eleison!” cried | |
| The pastors, and the flock replied, | |
| “Lord, save us from starvation!” | |
| “O, woe is me, poor Corydon! | |
| My neck,—my neck! I ’m gone,—I ’m gone!” | 35 |
| |
| Yet oft, when counsel, deed, and prayer | |
| Had all proved unavailing, | |
| When hope hung trembling on a hair, | |
| How oft has woman’s wit been there!— | |
| A refuge never failing; | 40 |
| For woman’s wit and Papal fraud, | |
| Of olden time, were famed abroad. | |
| |
| A youthful dame,—praised be her name! | |
| Last night had seen her plighted,— | |
| Whether in waking hour or dream, | 45 |
| Conceived a rare and novel scheme, | |
| Which all the town delighted; | |
| Which you, if you think otherwise, | |
| Have leave to laugh at and despise. | |
| |
| At midnight hour, when culverin | 50 |
| And gun and bomb were sleeping, | |
| Before the camp, with mournful mien, | |
| The loveliest embassy were seen | |
| All kneeling low and weeping. | |
| So sweetly, plaintively they prayed, | 55 |
| But no reply save this was made:— | |
| |
| “The women have free leave to go, | |
| Each with her choicest treasure; | |
| But let the knaves, their husbands, know | |
| That unto them the king will show | 60 |
| The weight of his displeasure.” | |
| With these sad terms the lovely train | |
| Stole weeping from the camp again. | |
| |
| But, when the morning gilt the sky, | |
| What happened? Give attention. | 65 |
| The city gates wide open fly, | |
| And all the wives come trudging by, | |
| Each bearing—need I mention?— | |
| Her own dear husband on her back, | |
| All snugly seated in a sack! | 70 |
| |
| Full many a sprig of court, the joke | |
| Not relishing, protested, | |
| And urged the king; but Conrad spoke: | |
| “A monarch’s word must not be broke!” | |
| And there the matter rested. | 75 |
| “Bravo!” he cried. “Ha, ha! Bravo! | |
| Our lady guessed it would be so.” | |
| |
| He pardoned all, and gave a ball, | |
| That night, at royal quarters. | |
| The fiddles squeaked, the trumpets blew, | 80 |
| And up and down the dancers flew, | |
| Court sprigs with city daughters. | |
| The mayor’s wife—O rarest sight!— | |
| Danced with the shoemaker that night! | |
| |
| Ah, where is Weinsberg, sir, I pray? | 85 |
| ’T is, sure, a famous city: | |
| It must have cradled, in its day, | |
| Full many a maid of noble clay, | |
| And matrons, wise and witty; | |
| And if ever marriage should happen to me, | 90 |
| A Weinsberg dame my wife shall be. | |
| |
