VII.
Yet even the next time, O what shall I say, If he holds me and asks me?—John, I must away!
TÖF MAL!
Se is doch de stillste vun alle to Kark! Se is doch de schönste vun alle to Mark! So weekli, so bleekli, un de Ogen so grot, So blau as en Heben un deep as en Sot.
Wer kikt wul int Water, un denkt ni sin Deel? Wer kikt wul nan Himmel, un wünscht sik ne vel? Wer süht er in Ogen, so blau un so fram, Un denkt ni an Engeln, un allerhand Kram?
In church she is surely the stillest of all, She steps through the market so fair and so tall,
So softly, so lightly, with wondering eyes, As deep as the sea, and as blue as the skies.
Who thinks not a deal when he looks on the main? Who looks to the skies, and sighs not again?
Who looks in her eyes, so blue and so true, And thinks not of angels and other things too?
KEEN GRAFF IS SO BRUT.
Keen Graff is so brut un keen Müer so hoch, Wenn Twe sik man gut sünd, so drapt se sik doch.
Keen Wedder so gruli, so düster keen Nacht, Wenn Twe sik man sehn wüllt, so seht se sik sacht.
Dat gif wul en Maanschin, dar schint wul en Steern, Dat gift noch en Licht oder Lücht un Lantern.
Dar fiunt sik en Ledder, en Stegelsch un Steg: Wenn Twe sik man leef hebbt—keen Sorg vaer den Weg.
No ditch is so deep, and no wall is so high, If two love each other, they’ll meet by and by.
No storm is so wild, and no night is so black, If two wish to meet, they will soon find a track.
There is surely the moon, or the stars shining bright, Or a torch, or a lantern, or some sort of light;
There is surely a ladder, a step, or a stile, If two love each other, they’ll meet ere long while.
JEHANN, NU SPANN DE SCHIMMELS AN!
Jehann, nu spann de Schimmels an! Nu fahr wi na de Brut! Un hebbt wi nix as brune Per, Jehann, so is’t ok gut!
Un hebbt wi nix as swarte Per, Jehann, so is’t ok recht! Un bün ik nich uns Weerth sin Sœn, So bün’k sin jüngste Knecht!
Un hebbt wi gar keen Per un Wag’, So hebbt wi junge Been! Un de so glückli is as ik, Jehann, dat wüll wi sehn!
MAKE HASTE, MY JOHN, PUT TO THE GRAYS.
Make haste, my John, put to the grays, We’ll go and fetch the bride, And if we have but two brown hacks, They’ll do as well to ride.
And if we’ve but a pair of blacks, We still can bear our doom, And if I’m not my master’s son, I’m still his youngest groom.