From
Cologne to Hagen some fifteen and six
Is the fare, rather under than over.
The diligence chanced to be full, so I rode
In a special chaise, without cover.
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'Twas
a late autumn morning both chilly and dull
Through the mud the carriage went wheezing.
But, in spite of the wretched weather and road,
I found it all rather pleasing.
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Ah,
this is my native air indeed,
By which my hot cheek fanned is,
And this mud of the highway in which I sink
The mud of my Fatherland is!
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The
horses kept wagging their tails like friends,
As if theirs had always been my road.
Atalanta's apples were not more fair
Than their pellets of dung on the high-road.
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We
posted through Mühlheim, a pretty town;
The people are busy and staid there.
In the May of eighteen thirty-one,
I remember, a visit I paid there.
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There
was bud, then, and blossom on bush and on bough,
The sunbeams were laughing and winking,
The birds were all singing and yearning in song,
And the people were hoping and thinking,.
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"These
lanky, lean warrior-guests of ours
We shall soon be allowed to fire on.
When they take to their horses their stirrup-cup
We'll pour them from bottles of iron.
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And
Freedom her banner of red, white and blue
Will wave over dancing and revel;
She may even fetch Bonaparte up from the grave
In defiance of Death and the Devil."
