  We sleep as Brutus slept of yore,— And yet he awoke, and ventured to bore In CÆsar’s bosom his chilly dagger! The Romans their tyrants loved to stagger.— No Romans are we, tobacco we smoke, Each nation its favourite taste can invoke; Each nation its special merit possesses— The finest dumplings Swabia dresses. But Germans are we, kindhearted and brave, We sleep as soundly as though in the grave; And when we awake, our thirst is excessive, But not for the blood of tyrants oppressive. ’Tis our great pride to be as true As heart of oak and linden too; The land which oaks and lindens gives birth to Can never produce a Brutus of worth too. And e’en if amongst us a Brutus were found, No CÆsar exists in the country round; Despite all his search, he would find him never,— We make good gingerbread however. We’ve six-and-thirty masters and lords, (Not one too many!) who wear their swords And stars on their regal breasts to protect them; The Ides of March can never affect them. We call them Father, and Fatherland We call the country they command By right of descent, and love to call so— We love sour-crout and sausages also. And when our Father walks in the street We take off our hats with reverence meet; Our guileless Germany, injuring no man, Is not a den of murderers Roman. |
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