Ihr liewe Leit:
En anner Naame ass mer net viel devun heert iss Martin Edwin
Birmelin. Awwer en paar Vaerscht vum seim Gedicht "En Grischtdaagsgschicht"
weise ass er, wie sei Vadder der John Birmelin, zimmlich gut dichde kann.
Am End vun unser Schtadt, en gleeni Leen
Laaft nunnerzus, graad neegscht am Miehledeich;
Do wuhnt en alder Mann, un wie ich sehn,
Es fehlt an alles; ya, er's mol net reich.
En Weil zerrick, do waar er in der Schtadt,
Beguckt die scheene Grischdaagssache all;
Was waar's en Kelt, doch not er noch net satt,
Wann aa die Hend un Fiess verfriere ball.
Datt in re neie Abbedeek am Eck,
Do hen sie Peife un aa Duwack gehatt;
Er schiebt die Hend noch weider in sei Seck
Un finnt paar Sent, die hen ihn nix gebatt.
Noh secht er, "Ya, so en Breierpeif waer schee-
'S waer'n scheeni Bressent fer en aarmer Mann-
Yuscht mit me Inkamm allzu schwach un glee,
Do muss mer ebbes schpaare, wann mer kann."
Nau laaft er weider, geht die Meen Schtrooss naus;
Salvation Army Meed, die schtehn am Eck,
Un hoscht paar Bense, kannscht woll duh mitaus;
Dann schmeisscht sie in der Haffe un laafscht weck.
Fer aarme Leit, do sammle sie des Geld;
Sie gewwe Kohle un aa Essach weck;
Des macht die Grischtdaag freehlich in re Welt
Wu viel in Not sin - 's iss en feiner Zweck.
Der aarm Mann schteht weil rum, bedracht die Gschicht;
In Aarmut lebt er aa, die Gleeder dinn,
Doch gebt er Geld un meent es waer sei Pflicht-
'S muss sei ass annre viele aarmer sin.
Noh baad er darrich Eis un diefer Schnee,
Kummt endlich widder an sei gleeni Hitt;
Was fiehlt sei Haz so grooss, so waarm, so schee-
Im Mondlicht schleicht sei dinner Schadde mit.
Was iss es doch so schee un waarm deheem!
'S feier in seim Offe ziegt un brummt;
Un draus rauscht kalter Wind darch daerre Beem,
En Kessel uffem Offe peift un summt.
Er hockt sich langsaam anne un er lacht:
"Die alde Glieder warre aafangs schteif;
Un fer Blessier - ich weess net was en macht-
Do geht nix iwwer'n aldi Grutzepeif!"
En freehlicher Grischtdaag winscht eich.
Der Alt Professer.
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Dear people:
Another name that one doesn't hear much about is Martin Edwin
Birmelin. But a few stanzas of his poem "A Christmas Day Story" show that
he, like his father John Birmelin, can write poetry quite well.
At the end of our city, a little lane
Runs down, right next to the mill pond;
There lives and old man, and as I can see,
Everything is missing; yes, he's not at all rich.
A while ago, he was in the city,
Looked at all the pretty Christmas things;
How cold it was, but he had not yet enough,
Even if his hands and feet almost froze.
There in a new drugstore on the corner,
They had pipes and tobacco;
He shoves his hands even farther into his pockets
And finds a few cents, they didn't help a bit.
Then he says, "Yes, such a briar pipe would be nice-
It would be a nice present for a poor man-
With just an income too weak and small,
You have to save something, if you can."
Now he walks farther, goes out the main street;
Salvation Army girls, they're standing at the corner,
And if you have a few cents, you can well do without;
Then you throw them into the pot and walk away.
For poor people they are gathering the money;
They also give away coal and food;
That makes Christmas joyous in the world
Where many are in need-it's a fine purpose.
The poor man stands around for a while, looks at what's going on;
He too lives in poverty, his clothes thin,
But he gives money and thinks it is his duty-
It must be that others are far poorer.
Then he wades through ice and deep snow,
Finally gets to his little hut;
How big his heart feels, so warm, so nice-
In the moonlight his thin shadow sneaks along.
How nice and warm it is at home!
The fire in his stove draws and hums/buzzes;
And outside cold wind rustles through bare trees,
A kettle on the stove whistles and hums.
He sits down slowly and laughs:
"The old limbs are starting to get stiff;
And for pleasure-I don't know how it happens-
There is nothing better than an old corncob pipe!"
A merry Christmas wishes you
The Old Professor
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