  From the Neckar he departed, With the town of Stuttgardt vex’d, And as play-director started In fair Munich’s city next. All that country’s very pretty, And they in perfection here, In this fancy-stirring city, Brew the very best of beer. But ’tis said the poor Director Rambles, like a Dante, glum, Melancholy as a spectre, Like Lord Byron, gloomy, dumb. Comedies no longer heeds he, Nor the very worst of rhyme; Wretched tragedies oft reads he, Not once smiling all the time. Oft herself some fair one flatters She will cheer his sorrowing heart; But his coat of mail soon shatters Every love-directed dart. All in vain his friends endeavour To enliven him and sing: “In thy life rejoice thee ever, “While thy lamp’s still glimmering!” Is there nought can raise thy spirits In this fair and charming town, Which, among its many merits, Boasts such men of great renown? It is true, that it has lately Lost full many a man of worth Whom we miss and valued greatly, Chorus-leaders and so forth. Would that Massmann left us never! He would surely have some day By his antics strange but clever Driven all thy cares away. Schelling’s And can never be replaced, A philosopher mysterious, And a mimic highly graced. That the founder of Walhalla Went away, and left behind All his manuscripts,—by Allah! That was really too unkind! With Cornelius All his pupils whatsoe’er; They shaved off their tresses cherish’d, And their strength was in their hair For their prudent Master planted In their hair some magic springs, And it seem’d, as if enchanted, To be full of living things. Apropos! The arch-notorious Priest, as Dollingerius known,— That’s, I think, his name inglorious,— Has he from the Isar flown? In Good Friday’s sad procession I beheld him in his place; ’Mongst the men of his profession He had far the gloomiest face. On MonÁcho Monachorum Now-a-days the cap doth fit Of virorum obscurorum, Glorified by Hutten’s wit. At his name thy dull eye flashes; Ex-nightwatchman, watchful be! There the cowls are, here the lash is,— Strike away as formerly! Scourge them, worthy friend, devoutly, As at sight of every cowl Ulrich did; he smote them stoutly, And they fearfully did howl. Old Erasmus could not master His loud laughter at the joke; And this fortunate disaster His tormenting ulcer broke. Old and young laugh,—all the city In the general shout concur, And they sing the well-known ditty: “Gaudeamur igitur!” When those dirty monks we’re catching, We are overwhelm’d with fleas; Hutten thus was always scratching, And was never at his ease. “Alea jacta est!” however Was the brave knight’s battle shout, Smiting down, with deathstroke clever, Both the priests and rabble rout. Ex-nightwatchman, now be wiser! Feel’st thou not thy bosom glow? Wake to action on the Isar, And thy sickly spleen o’erthrow. Call thy long legs transcendental Into full and active play; Vulgar be the monks or gentle, If they’re monks, then strike away! He however sigh’d, and wringing Both his hands he thus replied: My long legs, so apt at springing, Are with Europe stupified. And my corns are twitching sadly, Tight the German shoes I’ve on; Where the shoe is pinching badly Know I now,—so pray begone! |
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