Musicians call it the concórd Of octaves lower and higher, Philosophers the sympathy Of puppets on one wire. Geólogists find éven hard stone And nót a botanist but knows Each plant turns toward a mate; All may be right or all be wrong They 've seen each other at a friend's; The mall 's too public, and almost Bút in a Propaganda school As often as they please They'll come together, youth and maid, In safety and at ease. Here while he teaches little boys She girls their catechism, From hím to her from her to him Streams fást the magnetism. Your work is done; your youth and maid No more need of your care; Left to kind heaven and to themselves A double folly so they cooked But why so called the excellent dish But this I know, the recipé Succeéds even in these days, And mérits of all culinary Connoisseurs the praise. Walking across the mountains from CORTINA in VAL AMPEZZO to PREDAZZO in VAL FIEME, July 24-26, 1854. SAID Vinegar-cruet to Mustard-pot once: - What pleasure can any one take in the feast, "Excuse me, dear Vinegar-cruet," replied Mustard-pót, "I've been thinking this hour OPPENAU, in the BLACK FOREST (BADEN), Octob. 12, 1854. TÉN broad steps there 's tó my ládder, Five on one side, five on th' other; Ón the first step síts a móther Ón the sécond mý heart trémbles Ón the third step Álma Máter, Ón the fourth step the same young man Púts a góld ring on the finger Ón the tóp step sits a father Ín the evening by the fireside, Children round his knees are playing, Móther's washing úp the teá-things. Ón the first step down my ládder Bóth with spéctaclés, and reáding Ón the second step down, a lády Át the mirror, hé a brówn scratch, Ón the third step down, a wrinkled Ón the fourth step down, two armchairs, On the last step down, two séxtons Yé that haven't yet seen my ládder, Cóme look at it where it stands there And its five steps dówn, in shadow. Walking from FALKAU to TRYBERG in the BLACK FOREST (BADEN), Octob. 8-9, 1854. BEERDRINKER'S SONG, UNDER A PICTURE OF GAMBRINUS. GAMBRÍNUS was a gallant king Of mált and hops he brewed his beer And some of it he bottled up And some he kept in wood. The golden crown upon his head, Beerlóvers, paint him on your shields, And now fill every man his pot No higher praise ásks the good old king |