Ihr liewe Leit:
Ya, unser Kallenner saage uns ass wir am zwan- sichschde der Vaddersdaag feiere. Der Ralph Funk (1889-1969) hot mol fer sei Vadder en Gedicht gschriwwe; do sin en paar Vaerscht devun:
Er iss net immer hoch gelannt,
Un aa net immer reich;
Profitt iss oftmols aardlich gnapps
Vun der Bauerei im Deich.
Vleicht iss er aa en Affissman,
Vleicht dutt er ebbes schunscht;
Aerscht iss er Daadi, des iss schur,
Un’s kummt net aa uff Kunscht.
Er guckt vleicht nix abbaddich aa,
Doch’s iss net Faulichkeet—
Er rechelt, schtatts, un Wege sucht
Ass Familye besser schteht.
Er gnappst en Manches er gern hett,
Un dutt’s gern, graad so lang
Die Kinner ihr Verlange hen—
Oft danklos, bin ich bang.
Un dutt en Kind en baddich Taat,
Wu groosse Ehr mitbringt,
Dann schteht er aeryets ausse rum
Un’s Haz schwellt uff un singt.
Iss Seel un Karreber noch so mied
Mit viele schwere Mieh,
Doch nemmt er alles sie’s befallt
Un saagt net viel druffhie.
Ya, sell’s der Daadi—mei un dei—
Er froogt ken Dank un Ehr,
Ken Loh, ken Mitleid un ken Ruhm—
Yuscht ass ihr hett eier Share.
Hett ihr noch eier? Ich hab net—
Dann schetz ihn wie ihr sett.
Ihr wisst net, des verschteht ihr aa,
Wie lang ihr ihn noch hett.
Halt ihn in Ehr in alle Weg
Un macht sei Lewe leicht;
Verschellt ihn net, er hot genunk
Vun Angscht un Sarriye vleicht.
Geb ihm ken Ursach fer en Dreen,
‘S iss alsnoch net zu schpoot;
Sei gut zu ihn, ihr dutt’s net wann
Er leit mol kalt im Dod.
Mach’s gut,
Der Alt Professer
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Dear People:
Yes, our calendars tell us that we will celebrate Father’s Day on the 20th. Ralph Funk (1889-1969) once wrote a poem for his father; here are a few verses of it:
He is not always highly educated,
And also not always rich;
Profit is often very scanty
From the farm in the valley.
Perhaps he is an office worker,
Maybe he does something else;
First he is a Dad. that’s for sure,
And it doesn’t depend on art.
Perhaps he doesn’t look at anything in particular,
But that isn’t laziness—
He figures out, instead, and looks for ways
To make his family better.
He is sparing with things he’d like to have,
And does so gladly, as long as
The children have their desires—
Often thankless, I’m afraid.
And if a child does a special deed
That brings with it great honor,
Then he stands somewhere off to the side
And his heart swells and sings.
Even if soul and body are yet so tired
With many heavy troubles,
Yet he takes everything as it comes
And says not much about it.
Yes, that’s Daddy—mine and yours—
He asks no thanks and honor,
No reward, no pity and no fame—
Just that you have your share.
Do you still have (your father)? I don’t—
Then value him as you should.
You don’t know, and you understand this,
How long you will have him yet.
Hold him in esteem in all ways
And make his life easy;
Don’t scold him, he has enough
Of fear and cares perhaps.
Give him no reason for a tear,
It’s not too late at all;
Be good to him; you won’t be able to when
He once lies cold in death.
Take care,
The Old Professor
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