PA German Dialect

Es Neinuhr Schtick

1-08-04

Ihr liewe Leit:

   Zwee Wocke zerrick, imme Gedicht vum Martin Birmelin, hen mer vumme alde Mann gelese wu grooss Blessier vun seinre Grutzepeif grickt hot.

   Er waar net der eensicht! Der D. George Knecht hot mol gschriwwe:

Die Grischdaag sin veriwwer
Un die Nei Yaahr aa dezu;
Der Belsnickel iss widder heem,
      Nau grickt mer bissel Ruh.
Die Kelt iss aa nau widder do,
Der Winder iss nau reif-
Nau hockt mer um der Offe
   Un schmookt die Grutzepeif!

   Un's scheint ass der Salli (Harvey M. Miller, 1879-1939) sei Grutzepeif aa gegliche hot:

O, ihr wu schaft bei Daag un Nacht
   Fer groossi Bissness duh,
Un denkt en Haufe goldne Bens
   Versichert eem sei Ruh,
Ihr sucht in alle Weldeck drin
   Un schafft eich matt un schteif,
Doch finnt ihr ken Blessier wie die-
   Mei aldi Grutzepeif.

Wann Druwwel odder unglick kummt
   Un mach teem schwer im Hatz,
Un alli Hoffnung ass mer sucht
   Scheint in der Aussicht schwatz,
Iss nix ass frischer Eifer bringt
   Un halt der Rickschtrang schteif,
In schpeit vun all Elend do,
   Wie die alt Grutzepeif.

Dann hockt mer hie un nemmt sei Ruh
   Un bloosst der Newwel raus,
Die Fiess uff der Disch gekackt
   Un alles schtill im Haus.
Im Schmook verfliegt der druwwel glei,
   Un so verschtickt der Schtreit,
Un loss teem nix ass Friede do,
   Bei alde Grutzpeif.

   Un der Charles C. Ziegler (1845-1930) hot aa sei Lieb fer sei Peif ausdricke misse:

Mei aldi Peif! wie oft sin vun dir gschtigge
   Brandopher zu de Wolkegetter drowwe-
Die warrwle um enanner sich gewowe
Wie schlanke Meed wann sie im Dans rumfliege!
   Gedreier Freid! Es freeht mich dich zu lowe,
Un denk ich an die dausende Vergniege
   Ass nau sin in deim baune Kopp uffghowe,
Schein ich en dausent Zug in eem zu ziege.

Macht's gut,
Der Alt Professer

Dear people:

   Two weeks ago, in a poem by Martin Birmelin, we read about an old man who got great pleaure from his corncob pipe.

   He wasn't the only one! D. George Knecht once wrote:

Christmas (pl. in PG) is over
   And also New Year too;
Santa Claus is home again,
   Now we get a little rest/peace.
Cold weather is now here again,
   Winter is now ripe-
Now we sit around the stove
And smoke our corncob pipe!

   And it seems that Solly (Harvey M. Miller, 1879-1939) liked his corncob pipe too:

Oh, you who work by day and night
   To do great business,
And think that a pile of golden coins.
      Will assure your peace/rest,
You look in all corners of the world
    And work yourselves faint/weak and stiff,
But you find no joy like this-
   My old corncob pipe.

When trouble or misfortune comes
   And makes you heavy in the heart,
And all hope that you seek
   Seems black in prospect,
There's nothing that brings fresh zeal
   And holds your backbone stiff,
In spite of all the misery,
   Than the old corncob pipe.

Then you sit down and take your rest
   And blow out the fog/smoke,
Your feet cocked on the table
   And everything still in the house.
In the smoke the troubles fly away immediately,
   And so the strife is choked,
And leaves nothing but peace,
   With the old corncob pipe.

   And Charles C. Zeigler (1954-1930) also had to express his love of his pipe:

My old pipe! How often have risen from you
   Burnt offerings to the gods of clouds above-
Like lean girls when they fly about in dance!
   Faithful Joy! It pleases me to praise you,
And when I think of the thousand pleasures
   That are saved up in your brown head,
I seem to draw a thousand puffs in one.

Take care,
The Old Professor

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updated 3-15-2007 paf