Ludwig Uhland (1787–1862)

Translated by Alexander Platt

THOU, who but lately from the Critic’s stool,

So sorely jaded us poor sonneteers,

And, spurting fire and gall about our ears,

Did’st execrate us to Hell’s lowest pool;—

Thou spotless ermine of the olden school,

O, what a blot thy snow-white hide besmears!

Thou ’st toodled forth a sonnet, it appears,

A whining sigh to win a lady-fool!

Hast thou forgot thy proffer’d admonition?

Forgot what veteran Voss, so oft dictating,

Half-angrily, half-jestingly, enjoined?

Forsooth, thou ’rt very like a new edition

Of him, who gave his pilfering boy a rating,

And then chopped up the cherries he’d purloined.

LEIPZIG, 1848.