Stuttgart on the Neckar tired him,
And he left it in a rage.
Munich on the Isar hired him
As director of its stage.

Munich is a charming city;
Brave old bock, the best of beer,
Making men both wise and witty,
Brims the bowl with foaming cheer.

But the poor director wanders
Sad and sullen up and down:
Mournfully, like Dante, ponders,
With Lord Byron's gloomy frown.

Comedies have lost their magic;
So have verses the most vile;
Even the tragedies most tragic
Can no longer raise a smile.

Many a lovely woman gladly
From his heart would charm the ache,
But the tenderest glances sadly
On his brazen armour break.

Nancy in her barred cap flutters,
Woos and coos—he does not wince;
“Get thee to a nunnery,” mutters,
Moody as a Danish prince.

Vainly friends with joyous measures
Seek to sing away his woe:
“Life is good, come taste its pleasures,
While the lamp is still aglow.”

Can you not contrive to bury
And forget your grief? The town
For its jolly dogs and merry
Has a merited renown.

True, of late it has been losing
Many men it ill could spare,
Chorus-leaders of its choosing,
Gallant souls of virtue rare.

Had but Massmann not deserted!
Then whatever sorrows burned
In your heart had been diverted
By the somersaults he turned.

Schelling too! Ah, his defection
Was indeed a cruel stroke!—
As a mimic quite perfection,
As philosopher a joke.

That the great Walhalla builder
Should have gone, and left behind
All his writings to bewilder—
That was also most unkind.

All the youths Cornelius kindled,
When he went were in despair,
Once their locks were shorn they dwindled,
For their strength was in their hair.

On their hair the mighty master
Threw a spell—'twas plainly proved;
'Twas alive with things that faster
Than the eye could follow moved.

Dead is Görres, the hyena.
When the Inquisition, swept
From religion's fierce arena,
Passed away, red-eyed he wept.

There's a son, a timid rabbit,
Who this beast of prey survives;
He is venomous in habit,
And on fumitory thrives.

A propos! That arch-notorious
Priest, as Dollingerius known,—
Some such name he made inglorious,—
From the Isar has he flown?

By the sun's unsullied glory!
Such a face I never met.
Ah, its wretched, sinful story
Is too ugly to forget!

His arrival upon earth was
To his mother's lasting shame.
For the manner of his birth was
Too unnatural to name.

He was one in the procession
On Good Friday winding slow.
'Mongst those men of dark profession,
None was dark as he, I know.

Yes, Monácho Monachorum
Is to-day the stronghold fit
Of virorum obscurorum,
Made renowned by Hutten's wit.

Hutten! Ha! your eyes are flashing.
Wake, a watchman as before!
Here are cowls that want a lashing;
Drub them soundly as of yore.

Till their backs are bloody beat them,
Copy Ulrich; flog amain.
To such blows did Ulrich treat them
That they bellowed fierce with pain.

Loud and long, in merry humour,
Laughed Erasmus at the joke:
Laughed so loud that from his tumour
He recovered, for it broke.

On the Ebersburg with laughter
Shouted Sickingen like mad,
And all Germany rang after
With that lusty peal and glad;

Young and old—the laugh went ringing;
As for Wittenberg, be sure
It was one guffaw while singing
“Gaudeamus igitur!”

But when dirty cowls are beaten
One must count on catching fleas;
Poor Von Hutten was half eaten,
And tormented sore with these.

“Alea jacta est!” however,
Was the hero's battle-cry,
Nimble were his hands and clever:
Fleas and clergy both must die.

Does your heart not glow with anger,
You who called the hours of yore?
Rise, and cast away your languor
On the distant Isar shore!

Stretch your legs again for running,
Nor let sloth their speed retard;
Be they stupid cowls or cunning,
So they be but cowls, beat hard!

But he wrings his hands, while dreary
Is his sigh for lost repose;
Says, “My legs though long are weary
With old Europe and its woes.

“And my corns are hurting badly,
For my German shoes are tight.
Where they pinch I know, and gladly
Would be left in peace—Good night!”