Ihr liewe Leit:
All ihr gude Deitsche datt draus im PD Land, heer mol zu was
der Astor C. Wuchter (1856-1933) mol zu saage hot ghatt:
'S hot blendi Leit in unsrer Zeit,
Well, ennihau, es hot so deel,
Sie wolle ebbes exdraa sie-
So Kuche, weescht, vum feinschde Mehl.
Der Urgroossdaadi iss mol ab
So mit me Schnuppduch amme Schtock-
Sell waar ken Schand, waar'n ehrlich Hatz
Am Globbe unnerm Kittelrock.
Die menschde sin datt driwwe fatt
So aarrem, in Faeckt, wie Karrichemeis;
Viel Grieg un allerhand vun Not
Hot sie gzwunge uff die Reis.
Viel hen sich selwer noch verkaaft
Fer's Faahrgeld iwwer Land un See;
Noh hen sie gschafft im Serwedienscht
Fer widder uff die Freie Bee.
Oft Mann un Fraa, mit Kinner noch,
Hen sich mit Not so darrichgschafft;
'S waar'n sauri Pill, es waar Hoffning doch,
Noh dutt mer viel mit Gott, Graft.
Mit Zeit hen sie en heemet grickt,
Un Gott gedankt fer's Sege, Glick;
Sie waere net fer's schennschde Geld
In's alde Vadderland zerrick.
Mer meent Gott hett's so eigericht
Dass sie ins Land do kumme sin;
Dei bescht Supp hot ken Saft un Gschmack,
Iss gaar ken Sals un Peffer drin.
Sie waare ehrlich, schtreng un fromm,
Di Kinner grischtlich unnerricht;
Gebet un Gsunge, wie mer's heit
So wennich unnerm Volk meh sicht.
'S hot freilich aa in seller Zeit
So Leckendaun un Raeskel ghatt
Ass hiwwe nix un driwwe nix
Die Welt ihr Lebdaag hen gebatt.
Wie gsaat, die menschde sin do rei
Fer's Wohl vun Kinner, Fraa un sich;
Sie hen die Wildniss uffgeraamt,
Bis alls guckt wie'n Gaardeschtrich.
Die Alde sin schunn lang im Graab,
Sie ruhe uffem Hiwwel datt;
Un deitsch Gemeit un deitscher Sinn
Iss aa zu oft mit ihne fatt.
Deel hen die Naame gans verdreht,
Un newebei noch's Hatz dezu;
Wann's seli Alde wissde des,
'S waer'n Dann in ihre Graabesruh.
Mer misse neegscht Woch weidermache.
Macht's gut,
Der Alt Professer
|
Dear people:
All you good Pennsylvania Germans out there in PG land, listen to
what Astor C Wuchter (1856-1933) had to say once:
There are many people in out time,
Well, anyhow, there are a few,
They want to be something extra-
Cake, you know, of the finest flour.
Great granddad once took off
With so a kerchief on a stick-
That was no disgrace, there was a true heart
Beating under his jacket.
Most of them left from over there
As poor, in fact, as church mice;
Much war and all sorts of distress
Forced them to take the trip.
Many even sold themselves
For the fare over land and sea.
Then they worked in servitude
To get on their free legs again.
Often husband and wife, with
children even,
Worked their way through with distress;
It was a sour pill, but there was hope,
One can do much with God, strength.
With time they got a home,
And thanked God for the blessing, luck;
They would not for the nicest money
Have gone back to the old fatherland.
One would think that God arranged it so
That they would come into this land here;
The best soup has no juice and taste
If there are no salt and pepper in it.
They were honest, stern and pious,
The children were taught Christianity;
Prayed and sang, like one today
Sees so little of among the people.
Of course, also at that time
There were bums and rascals
Who here and over there all their lives
Were of no worth to the world.
As we've said, most of them came over
For the good of children, wives, themselves;
They cleaned up the wilderness
Till everything looked like a garden patch.
The old ones are already long in their graves,
They are resting on the hill there;
And German mind and German sense
Often went away with them.
If those old ones knew that,
It would be a thorn in their grave-rest
We'll have to continue next week.
Take care,
The Old Professor
|
