And when I reached the bridge I saw,
Where the bastion guards the river,
The waves of Father Rhine below
In the quiet moonlight quiver.

“How has it fared with you, Father Rhine?
Once more I give you greeting.
How often with a wistful heart
I have longed for this hour of meeting!”

Having spoken thus, I heard in the depths
A curious peevish moaning
That sounded like an old man's cough,
Accompanied by groaning.

“Welcome, my boy; for your kindly thoughts
In exile I am grateful.
We have not met for thirteen years—
Disastrous years and fateful.

“At Biberich I have swallowed stones.
The taste was vile, yet worse is
What heavier on my stomach lies—
One Niklas Becker's verses.

“To hear him sing you would certainly think
That I was some virgin speckless,
Who had guarded from every thieving hand
Her crown of honour fleckless.

“I have been so mad when I heard them shout
That song the fool wrote round me,
That I've almost torn my old white beard,
In myself have almost drowned me.

“The French could tell a truer tale:
Quite another sort of story.
They knew how often they fouled my waves
While marching on to glory.

“The silly song and the silly man!
He has shamefully stigmatized me,
And, for all I know, in politics
He may even have compromised me.

“How shall I face the French again,
My cheek with shame thus burning?
I who so often have prayed to Heaven
With tears for their returning!

“I was always fond of the little men—
Such gallant, gay carousers!
Do they sing and spring as they used to do,
And wear those funny white trousers?

“I should like so much to see them again,
But I hardly dare to, after
That ridiculous, stupid, accursed song;
I confess I fear their laughter.

“Why, Alfred de Musset may come, you know,
That gutter-snipe of the city;
And, marching ahead of them, drum me deaf
With his insolence vile but witty.”

Thus poor old Father Rhine complained;
It made me sad to hear him.
I answered with many soothing words,
And did my best to cheer him.

“Father Rhine, you need not fear the French;
Their tongue no longer itches
To jest and gibe; they're completely changed.
They've discarded the funny white breeches.

“The ones they are wearing now are red,
With different buttons; they wander
Unsinging, unspringing, grow duller each day,
And hang their heads and ponder.

“Kant, Fichte, and Hegel are names one hears
They philosophize and they think now
They play at skittles and smoke their pipes,
And beer is all the drink now.

“They will soon be worse Philistines far than ourselves,
So much have things altered. Voltaire now
Has hardly a single disciple left;
'Tis by Hengstenberg they swear now.

“It is true that Alfred de Musset is still
A gutter-snipe, and a witty one;
But we'll see that we give him as good as we get,
Though our answer may not be a pretty one.

“Yes, if he comes drumming his wretched jokes,
We'll whistle him back his measure;
We'll whistle him tunes of the women fair
In whom he finds his pleasure.

“Oh, soon you'll have heard a better song.
Let this silly song not grieve you.
Farewell, we shall shortly meet again,
Though at present I must leave you.”