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; A pláce convenient to them both 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, Streams fást the magnetism. Your work is done; your youth and maid No more need of your care; Léft to kind heaven and to themselves A double folly so they cooked Some twenty years ago, But why so called the excellent dish But this I know, the recipé Succeéds even in these days, And mérits of all culinary Cónnoisseurs 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: "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 ladder, 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 yoúng man Púts a góld ring on the finger Ón the top step síts a father Ín the evening by the fireside, Children round his knees are playing, Móther's wáshing up the teá-things. Ón the first step down my ladder 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 ladder, Ánd its five steps down, 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, Upón your beérpots paint 'Twere well a pope did never worse Than máke Gambrinus Saint. And now fill every man his pot Till the foam óverflows; No higher praise ásks the good old king Than fróth upon the nose. |