Boot vhere ish now de Schnitzerl's soul?
Vere dos his shbirit pide?

In Himmel troo de entless plue

It takes a medeor ride.

-Breitmann Ballads.

SELECTION FROM BREITMANN'S

CHURCH.

GOING ΤΟ

Breitmann had led his troopers out of Nashville for the purpose of visiting a distant church, partly in order to satisfy his "religios Gefuhl" and partly because an "intelligent contraband" had brought information that "There's twenty barr'ls of whisky in dat Tabernacle sure."

All rosen red de mornin fair
Shone gaily o'er de hill,

All violet plue de shky crew teep
In rifer, pond und rill.

All cloudy grey de limeshtone rocks
Coom oop troo dimmerin wood;
All shnowy vite in mornin light
De shoorsh pefore dem shtood.

"Now loudet vell de Organ oop,
To drill mit solemn fear;
Und ring alsò dat Lumpenglock,
To pring de beoples here.
Und if it prings guerillas down,
Ve'll gife dem, py de Lord!

De low mass of de sabre, und
De high mass of de cord!

"Du Eberlé aus Freiburg,
Du bist ein Musikant.
Top-sawyer on de counter-point
Und buster in discánt,
To dee de soul of music
All innerly ish known,
Du canst mit might fullenden
De art of orgel-ton.

"Derefore a Miserére

Vilt dou, be-ghostet, spiel;
Und vake re-raiséd yearnin,
Alsó a holy feel:-

Pe referent, men-rememper
Dis ish a Gotteshaus-

Du, Conrad, go along de aisles,
Und schenk de whisky aus!"

Dey blay crate dings from Mozart, Beethoven und Méhul,

Mit chorals of Sebastian Bach,

Sooplime und peaudiful.

Der Breitmann feel like holy saints, De tears roon down his fuss,

Und he sopped out: "Gott verdammich-dis Ist wahres Kunstgenuss!"

Der Eberlé blayed oop so high
He make de rafters ring.
Der Eberlé blayed lower, und

Ve heardt der Breitmann sing.
Like a dronin wind in piney woods,
Like a nightly moanin sea,

Ash he dinked on Sonntags long agone
Vhen a poy in Germany.

Und louder und mit louder tone
High oop de orgel blowed,
Und plentifuller efer yet
Around de whisky goed.

Dey singed ash if mit singin dey
Might indo Himmel win :-
I dink in all dis land soosh shprees
Ash yet hafe nefer peen.

Vhen in de Abendsonnenschein,
Mit doost-cloudts troo de door,
All plack ash night in goldnen lighdt
Dere shtood ein schwartzer Mohr.
Dat contrapand so wild und weh,

Mit eye-palls glarin round,

Und cried: "For Gott's sake, hoory oop! De reps ish gomin down!"

Und vhile he yet vas shpeakin,
A far-off soundt pegan,
Down rollin from de moundain,
Of many a ridersmann.

Und vhile de waves of musik
Vere rollin o'er deir heads,
Dey heard a foice a schkreemin:
"Pile out of thar, you Feds!

"For we uns ar' a comin

For to guv to you uns fits,
And knock you into brimstun,
And blast you all to bits—”
Boot ere it done ids shpeakin
Dere vas order in de band,
Ash Breitmann, mit an awefool stim
Out-dondered his gommand.

Und ash fisch-hawk at a mackarel
Doth make a splurgin flung,
Und ash eagles dab de fisch-hawks
Ash if de gods were young;
So from all de doors und vindows,
Like shpiders down deir webs,

De Dootch went at deir horses,
Und de horses at de rebs.

Crate shplendors of de treadful

Vere in dat pattle rush;

Crate vights mit swordt und carpine
Py efery fence and bush;
Ash panters vight mit crislies

In famished morder fits—

For de rebs vere mad ash boison,

Und de Dootch ver droonk as blitz.

Yet vild ash vas dis pattle,

So quickly vas it o'er :O vhy moost I forefer

Pestain mine page mit gore! Py liddle und py liddle,

Dey drawed demselfs afay; Oft toornin round to vighten, Like booffaloes at bay.

De scatterin shots grew fewer,
De scatterin gries more shlow;
Und furder troo de forest

Ve heared dem vainter crow.
Ve gife von shout-" Victoria!"
Und den der Breitmann said,