Breitmann’s Velocipede Ride, Hans Breitmann’s Ballads (1869)

Breitmann’s Velocipede Ride

De noombers of de Deutsch volk,

Dat coomed dis sighdt to see,

I dink, in soper earnest-hood,

Mighdt not ge-reckonet pe.

For miles dey shtoodt along de road –

Mein Gott! Boot dey were’n dry;

Dey trinket den lager-beir shops out,

Pefore der Hans coom by.

 

Vhen all at once dremendous gries

De ferry coondry shook,

And beople shkreemt, “Da ist er! – Schau?

Here comes der Brietmann – look?”

Mein Gott! Vas efer soosh a sighdt!

Vas efer soosh a gry

Vhen like a brick-pat in a vihdt,

Der Brietemann roosh by!

 

O mordal man! Vy is it dou,

Hast passion to go fast?

Vy is it dat te togs and horse,

Likes shbeed too quick to lasdt?

De pugs, de pirds, de pumble-pees,

And all dat ish, ’tvould seem,

Ish never hobby, boot exsepdt,

Vhen pilin’ on de shdeam.

 

Der Brietmann flew. Von mighdy cry

Ash he vent scootin’ past

Von derriple, drementous yell –

Dat day de first – und last.

Vot ha! Vot ho; Vy ish it dus?

Vot maket dem shtare aghasht?

Vy cooms dat vail of vild deshbair?

Ish somedings cot ge-smasht?

 

Yea, efen so. Yea ferrily,

Shbeak soul! It ish dy biz!

Der Brietmann shkeet so vast along

Dey fairly heard him whizz.

Vhen shoost oopon a hill-top point

It caught a pranch ge-bent,

Und like an apple from a shling

Afay Hans Brietmann vent.

 

Vent droo de air an hundret feet

Allowin’ more or lees: –

Den, pob – pob – pob – a mile or dwo

He rollet along – I guess.

Say – hast dou seen a gannon ball

Half shpent, shtill poundin’ on,

Like made of Gummit- Lasticum? –

So vent der Brietemann.

 

Dey bick him oop – dey pring him in,

No wort der Brietmann shboke,

Der doktor look – he shwear erstaunt,

Dat nodings ish peen proke.

He rollt de rocky road entlang,

He pounce o’er shtock and shtone,

You’d dink he’d knocked his outsides in,

Yet nefer preak a pone!

 

All shtill Hans lay, bevilderfied,

He seemt not mind de shaps;

Nor mofed oontil der medicus

Have dose him vell mit schnapps,

Der scmell voke oop de boetry

Of tays vhen he was yoong;

Und he murmulte de fragmends

Of an sad romantish song.

 

“Ash sommer pringt de roses,

Und roses pring de dew,

So Deutschland gites de maidens

Who fetch de bier for you,

Komn Maidelein! rothe Waengelein!

Mit wein-glass in your paw!

Ve’ll get troonk among de roses,

Und lie soper on de shtraw!

 

Ash vinter pring de ice-wind

Vich plow o’er Burgund hill,

Hard times pring in de landlord,

Und der landlord prings a pill.

Boot  sing Maidelin – rothe Weangelein!

Mit wein-glass in your raw!

Ve’ll get troonk among de roses,

Und lie soper on de shtraw!”

 

Dey took der Breitmann homewarts,

Boot efer on de vey

He nefer shpeaket no man,

Und nodings else couldt say,

Boot, “Maidelein – rothe Waengelein!

Mit wein-glass in her paw!

Ve’ll get troonk among de roses,

Und lie soper on de shtraw!”

 

Dey laid der Hans in Bette,

Peneat’ de eider daun

Und sembelet all de doktors

Who doktor in de town –

Dat ish, de Deutsche Aertzte –

For Breitmann always says,

Dee Deutschers ish de onlies

Mit originell idees.

 

HANS BREITMANN’S BALLADS
The Bradford Observer, May 06, 1869; pg. 6

 

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