Ihr liewe Leit:
Waer vun eich saagt Faasnacht? Un waer saagt Fassnacht, odder
Faschtnacht, odder villeicht sogaar Faasenacht? Der Dichder Edward Hermany
(1832-1896) hot Faasnacht gsaat, un do sin en paar Vaerscht aus seim Gedicht “Faasnacht”:
Vaerscht aus seim Gedicht “Faasnacht”:
Was waer’s als en Luscht gewest
Wann’s gheese hot die Faasnacht kummt;
Mer hot sich gfreeht schun wochelang,
Gepiffe, gsunge un getschumpt;
Die Mammi hot em lengscht gedrillt:
“Nau, Buwe, schafft Oier bei:
Wann’s Faasnacht Kuche gewwe soll,
Do misse latt vun Oier nie.”
Noh iss mer noch der Scheier ab,
Uff’s Schtroh un Hoi, uff’s Welschkannlaab,
Un gsucht eb’s aerrigets Oier hett
Mer waar gans zu mit Gfees un Schtaab,
Un wammer noh eens gfunne hot,
Was hot mer gwschaert fer noch em haus.
“Do, Mammi, iss eens, nemmt’s noch meh?”
“Ya, Buwe, schunnscht gebt’s schur nix draus.”
Wann als der Daag ball kumme iss,
Noh hot en yeders noch gzaert,
“Ich wunner waer die Faasnacht gebt,
Wen’s drefft, der watt ins Seifaas gschpaert.”
Mer hot sich awwer als gewehrt
Un’s waar em doch so halwer bang
Mer waer villeicht der letscht im Bett,
Noh mist mer’s heere wochelang.
Was hot mer gschaert fer marrigeds raus,
So dass mer net die Faasnacht waer;
Der Mammi waar’s mol rufe gschpaert –
So frieh war’s Bett schunn lang net leer.
Noh hot mer iwwer die gelacht
Wu nix geduh hen wie gzaert,
“Do kummt die Faasnacht hinnenoh,
Nau watt sie de ich, ins Seifaas gschpaert.”
‘S maag sei wie’s wil, ‘s iss net wie’s waar,
Ihre alde Kalls,ihr wisst’s zu gut;
So Dings vergesst sich net so leicht,
So ebbes draagt mer net im Hut.
Ach! wammer alsemol draadenkt.
Wie’s waar in seine yunge Yaahr,
Mer geebt der beschde Gaul im Schtall
Fer’n Woch wie sellemols, net waahr?
Nau, waer vun eich watt am Achde die Faasnacht? Un waer vun eich
watt widder mol zu viel Faasnacht-kuche esse (odder saagt ihr Fettkuche?)
Macht’s gut,
Der Alt Professer
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Dear people:
Who of you says Faasnacht (Shrove Tuesday)? And who says Fassnacht,
or Faschnacht, or maybe even Faasenacht? The poet Edward Hermany
(1832-1896) said Faasnacht, and here are a few verses/stanzas from his
poem “Shrove Tuesday”:
What a joy it used to be
When we were told that Shrove Tuesday was coming,
We looked forward to it for weeks already,
Whistled, sang and jumped;
Mommy drilled us long beforehand:
“Now, boys, fetch eggs;
If there are to be doughnuts,
Lots of eggs must go into them.”
So we went off to the barn,
On the straw and hay, on the corn stalks,
And looked if there were eggs anywhere –
We were all stopped up with trash and dust,
And if we then found one,
We then hurried off to the house.
“Here, Mommy, is one; will you need more?’”
“Yes, boys, or else nothing will come of it.”
When then the day soon came,
Then we all teased each other,
“I wonder who will be the Faasnacht*,”
Whoever it is will be put into the swill-barrel.”
But we had to be on guard,
And yet we were half afraid
That we could be the last one in bed,
Then we had to hear it for weeks.
How we hurried to get up in the morning,
So that we wouldn’t be the Faasnacht;
Mommy was spared for once calling us –
Beds had long not been empty that early.
Then we laughed at those
Who had done nothing but tease,
“Here comes the Faasnacht at last,
Now he/she will be put into the swill-barrel.”
Be that as it may, it’s no more the way it was,
You old fellows, you know too well;
Such things aren’t easily forgotten,
You don’t carry such things in you hat.
Oh! When you once think about
How it was in your younger years,
You would give the best horse in the stable
For a week like then, isn’t that true?
Now who of you will be the Faasnacht on the 8th? And who of you
will once again eat too many Fassnachts (or do you say “Fatcakes”)?
*The last one out of bed on Shrove Tuesday morning was called the
Faasnacht/Fassnacht.
Take care,
The Old Professor
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