PA German Dialect

Es Neinuhr Schtick
 

10-23-03

Ihr liewe Leit:

   Un ich glaab es kennt sei ass yuscht en Handvoll vun ihr liewe Leser vum Parre Isaak Summers Stahr (1845-1930) gheert hen, awwer wie mer letscht Woch gsaat hen, des meent net ass er net en guder PD Dichder waar. Do sin Vaerscht aus seim Gedicht "Die Alt Heemet":

Vun all de Bletz in daere Welt
Gebt's kenner der mer besser gfellt
Ass wie mei Heemet wie sie waar
In Kindheits un in Yugend Yaahr.

Bei gude Eldre waar ich dart
An sellem liewe, deire Aart;
Hen fer mich gsaarigt Daag un nacht,
Un immer noch mein Glick gedracht.

Ich sehn der Mudder ihre Bild,
Ihr Wese waar so lieb un mild;
Ihr Bild iss uff mei Haerz gepraegt
So lang ass mich die Aerde draegt.

Der Vadder vor mei Aagsicht schteht,
Ich sehn en alsnoch wie er geht,
Un nemmt Arndt's Wahres Christentum
Un lest drin in der Marrigeschtunn.

Wann ich nau hiekumm ans alt Haus,
Sehnt alles als gans annerscht aus;
Ken Gschwischdere sin meh an sel'm Aart,
Die Eldre, die sin nimmi dart.

En draurich Gfiehl fillt nau mei Haerz,
Ich kann's net helfe, ich fiehl Schmaerz
Ass alles sich so verennert hot,
Un nix meh iss als wie's sei sott.

Goodbye, du Haus, daart alt un glee,
Du bischt mei Heemet nimmimeh;
Du bischt mer awwer en heilicher Aart,
Un waerscht es bleiwe faart un faart.

   Un wer zum Deiwel waar der H. Horace Romig? Ee Ding iss fer schur: er hett en Mann vun yuscht wennich Wadde sei kenne! Do iss sei Gedicht "Der Alt Blatz":

Die Felder sin datt,
Un der Busch iss datt;
Die Scheier iss datt,
Awwer der Paep iss fatt.

Der Kaschebaam iss datt,
Die Schpring iss datt;
Die alt Heemet iss datt,
Awwer die Memm iss fatt.

Macht's gut,
Der Alt Professer
 
Dear people:

   And I believe that it could be that just a handful of you dear readers have heard of Pastor Isaak Summers Stahr (1845-1930), but as we said last week, that doesn't mean that he was not a good PG poet. Here are verses from his poem "The Old Homestead":

Of all the places in this world
There is none that I like better
Than my home as it was
In the years of my childhood and youth.

With good parents I was there
At that loving, dear place;
They took care of me day and night,
And always strove to make me happy.

I see my mother's figure,
Her manner was so dear and mild;
Her picture is etched in my heart
As long as the earth carries me.


Father stands before my face,
I see him still as he goes,
And takes Arndt's True Christendom
And reads therein in morning hours.

When I now get there to the old house,
Everything looks entirely different;
No siblings are any more at that place,
The parents, they are no longer there.

A sad feeling now fills my heart,
I can't help it, I feel pain
That everything has changed so,
And nothing more is the way it should be.


Goodbye, you house, there old and small,
You are no longer my home;
But you are for me a holy place,
And will remain so continuously.
 


   And who the devil was H. Horace Romig? One thing is for certain: he could have been a man of just a few words! Here is his poem "The Old Place":

The fields are there,
And the woods are there;
The barn is there,
But Dad is gone.

The cherry tree is there,
The spring is there;
The old homestead is there,
But Mom is gone.

Take Care,
The Old Professor

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