Postscript/Nachtrag:
Departure from Paris

PARIS, adieu, beloved town,
To-day I turn a rover,
And leave you happy here behind,
With pleasure brimming over.

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My German heart has fallen sick
Within my breast I feel it—
And in the North the doctor dwells
Whose skill alone can heal it .

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He's famous for his wondrous cures,
To health he'll soon restore me,
But drastic are his bitter drugs;
I shrink from what's before me.

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Farewell, ye merry folk of France,
My brothers happy-hearted;
'though foolish yearning drives me forth,
We shall not long be parted .

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Imagine! For the smell of peat
I long with real anguish;
For turnips, Lüneburger cakes
And sauer-kraut I languish .

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I yearn for watchmen, councillors,
Black bread in all its crudeness,
For tobacco, parsons' daughters blonde
I even yearn for rudeness .

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I long to see my mother, too;—
I frankly own I'm human—
'Tis fully thirteen years since last
I saw the dear old woman .

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Farewell, my wife, my lovely wife;
I must perplex and grieve you—
So close I fold you to my heart,
Yet, none the less, I leave you.

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With this terrible thirst that drives me far
From bliss, I dare not trifle;
I feel I must fill my lungs once more
With German air, or stifle.

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In convulsive throes this pain would end—
This wild impetuous burning—
My foot, to tread on German ground,
Quivers and shakes with yearning.

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By the end of the year, completely cured
Of this malady most unpleasant,
I'll be back, I promise, in time to buy
The loveliest New Year's present.

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