Ihr liewe Leit:
Ya, die Leit ass zu re Vendu gehne kenne ruhich Gschpass hawwe wann
sie sehne un here wie’s Haus samt Hausrot abgschlaage warre. Awwer kennt’s sei
ass die Eegner vun denne Sache gaar ken Gschpass draa finne? Der Holsbock hot
mol gschriwwe:
Die alt Wieg uff Vendu, mei aerscht Buweli Bett,
Un finf Cent gebodde? Ich denk awwer net!
Schtopp bletzlich graad datt, Mr. Groier; ken Geld,
All die Greenbacks un Silwer un Gold in der Welt,
Nix, nix kann sie kaafe, sie iss mer zu lieb—
Mei Kindheetsdraam, Schlummerbaam, seelich alt Wieg.
Do hawwich fer’s aerscht die Erscheffing erblicked,
Do hot als die Mammi debei ghockt un gschtrickt,
Un Gott un die Engel, wie’s immer noch waar,
Waare do bei der Mammi, mich hiede vun Gfaahr.
Un oft peint me Hatz, in dem schpeeder Daag, heit,
Waer ich yuscht neegscht zu Gott wie ich war seller Zeit!
Yaa, do hot sie ghackt unmich gschockelt zu Ruh,
Mei lieb, himmlich Keenichin gedresst in Kaddu!
Ken fei seidi “Lady” verschtellt wie gscheit,
Awwer finer un reicher ass die Fratzhanse heit.
Un beim Schockle un Schticke, do waar sie am Bescht,
Deweil hot sie gsunge zum Bobbeli im Nescht:
Schloof, Bobbeli, schloof,
Der Daadi hiedt die Schoof,
Die Mammi schiddelt er Schlummerbaam,
So fallt zu dier en Kindheetsdraam,
Schloof, Bobbeli, schloof.
Hushaby, Liewer, lei ruhich un schlummer,
Heiliche Engel behiede die Ruh,
Himmliche Seege vun Gott unne Nummer,
Falle so leichtsaam dei Schlummerschiff zu.
So schloof, Bobbeli, schloof,
Die groose Schtanne sin Schoof,
Die gleene Schtanne sin Lemmer, ich denk,
Un der Muun, Schoofhieder im Firmament,
Schloof, bobbeli, schloof.
Graad sohot sie gsunge, ich heer sie noch heit,
Fer die alt Wieg erinnert mich nau vun der Zeit:
Des iss all ass ich hab, fer die Yaahre sin Dieb,
Siehen genumme ass die altfaeschent Wieg;
Guck nei, sie iss leer, doc hiss sie voll Freeht
Un Aadenke ass ewichlich nimmi vergeht.
So schtopp, Mr. Groier, net noch n Gebott,
Selli Wieg iss mei Aldaar, vor Engel un Gott!
Sell frischt me Gedechtniss, un’s nemmt mich zerrick
Wu die mammi debei hockt un schockelt un schtrickt,
Un ich heer ihre Schtimm, ich ken’s an der Weis,
Yaa, sie singt mer en Lied aus sellem siess Paradeis!
Macht’s gut,
Der Alt Professer
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Dear people:
Yes, the people who co to an auction can have fun when hey see and
hear how the house along with the furniture is sold off. But could it be
that the owners of those things find no fun at all in the proceedings?
Hulsbuck once wrote:
The old cradle at auction, my first boy’s bed,
And five cents bid? But I think not!
Stop right there, auctioneer, no money,
All the greenbacks and silver and gold in the world,
Nothing, nothing can but it, it is too dear to me—
My childhood’s dream, slumber tree, blessed old cradle.
There for the first time I viewed creation,
There Mommy used to sit and knit,
And God and the angels, as it has always been,
Were there by Mommy to protect me from danger.
And often my heart pines, late in the day, today,
If only I were next to God as I was at that time!
Yea, there she sat and rocked to rest,
My dear, heavenly queen dressed in calico!
No fine silky “lady” greatly disguised,
But finer and richer than the dudes/flops today.
And at rocking and knitting she was the best.
Meanwhile she sang to the baby in its “nest”:
Sleep, baby, sleep,
Daddy is minding the sheep,
Mommy shakes the slumber-tree,
To you comes a childhood dream,
Sleep, baby, sleep.
Hushaby, dear, lie quietly and sleep,
Holy angels protect your rest,
Heavenly blessings from God without number,
Your eyelids close so easily.
So sleep, baby, sleep,
The large stars are sheep,
The little stars are lambs, I think,
And the moon, shepherds in the firmament,
Sleep, baby, sleep.
Just so she sang, I hear her yet today,
For the old cradle reminds me now of the time;
This is all that I have, for the years are thieves,
They’ve taken all except the old-fashioned cradle;
Look into it, it is empty, but it is full of joy
And remembrance that will never go.
So stop, auctioneer, not one more bid,
That cradle is my altar, before angels and God!
It refreshes my memory, and it takes me back
Where Mommy sits nearby and rocks and knits,
And I hear her voice, I know it by the tune,
Yea, she’s singing me a song from that sweet paradise!
Take care,
The Old Professor
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