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WRITTEN IN SCHOLASTICA'S DENKBUCH,

SEEHAUS, ACHENSEE, Oct. 9, 1861.

“Mighty pleasant to get in,
Hungry, tired, wet to the skin,
And your fool's name enter here,
And drink wine in place of beer,
Dry and brush wet clothes and hat,
Pat the dog and stroke the cat,
Pay your reckoning, read the blatt,
With th' obliging kellnerin chat,
This surmise, and wonder that,
Most of all why there 's no mat,
And Scholastica less fat
Than she was this time last year
Couldn't we get her to drink beer?
See what comes of living here,
On the shore of Achen lake,
Far from the Pinacothek,
Ruhmeshall and Glyptothek,
And the Keller in the Thal,
With its gréat beer and its small;
Positive she must drink beer,
If in Achen Gasthof here
She would live another year,

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See another summer sun
Here on Achen lake go down,
And not have the young May moon
Shining on her grave as soon
As it shines on Achen lake;
Positive she must forsake
Austrian wineslop, white and red,
Bad for stomach, bad for head,
And to kindly hops and malt,
Malt and hops without a fault,
Turn converted, and adhere
Faithful, blameless, without fear."

So he said no cavalier,
Though without reproach or fear
So he said, the Munich man,
Longing for the Munich can,
And the Keller in the Thal,
With its great beer and its small,
Then turned out, and back again
Trudged through mud, cold, wind and rain,
Which most pleasant he doesn't know –
Well if it doesn't come on to snow!
Dark the clouds and thick and low,
And the lake it 's surging so
Back to Munich straight he'll go,
Back into the Zollverein,
And drink beer instead of wine,
In the Keller in the Thal,
With its great beer and its small,
And the view of Achen lake
Take in the Pinacothek,
And some fine day, next July,
When the roads tempt, white and dry,

And the clouds sail light and high,
And smooth Achen waters lie
Mirroring the bright blue sky,
Come again and read the blatt,
Pat the dog and stroke the cat,
With th’ obliging kellnerin chat,
This surmise and wonder that,
Has Scholastica grown fat,
And at long and last a mat
Got to wipe the strangers' feet,
And the stube floor keep neat
He 'll be here and so won't I;
Down on me another sky,
Another sun will look, in Rome,
Dresden, or my, sea-girt home,
While on Achen lake I think,
And of Memory's chalice drink,
Idly studious, and the times
Criticising in rough rhymes,
Rhymes as little made as these,
Any but myself to please.

“Achen lake, good bye! good bye!”
Said the Munich man; and I
Said the same and heaved a sigh:
Achen lake, good bye! good bye!

“Eam moriens praecepit incendi.”

Thou didst well, Maro, to decree
With thy last breath, that burned should be

The Eneid, every line;
Not that unworthy it to live,
But that unworthy we to receive

The gift almost divine. (Walking from BICHELSEE to ESCHLIKON in Canton THURGAU, July 11, 1862.)

THE art of speaking 's not, to speak the truth,
But to persuade your hearers you speak true;
For words the arms are,

of the man of

peace, ,
As swords and guns are, of the man of war,
And no great captain or great speaker yet
Set other aim before him than success.
It 's no great harm that right be on your side,
And truth in all your words, but if you

can't
Persuade men that they are so, your breath 's lost,
And grosser than the grossest wrong, your right,
And fouler than the foulest lie, your truth.

Woe to you! woe! and woe again! vae victis ! (Walking from LÜTISBURG to Gossau, in the CANTON ST. GALLEN, July 12, 1862.)

MUSIC.

“SOME music 's bad, some music 's good,
But there 's no music is not rude;"

To my own Mary Ann I said,
Charmer of my heart and head,
As at a friend's we sipped our tea,
One summer evening, I and she
“What! must we cease our chat, and sit
Mumchance, because Adele thinks fit
To turn her back on us, and squall
To her piano and the wall ?
It is, I doubt not, very fine;
Air, voice, and instrument, divine;
But I don't choose to have mine ear
Taken by storm and forced to hear;
And, least of all, choose, when I 've thee,
Sweet Mary Ann, for company,
Sitting and prattling at my side,
In thy youth and beauty's pride.
Silence, and listen – she has begun;
Not one word dare, until she has done:
Come, Patience, to thy votary's aid

What a fine piece! – now that it 's played." (Walking from HILLESHEIM to Losheim in the EIFEL, Aug. 20—21, 1862.)

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