Ihr liewe
Leit:
Heit mache mer weider middem Astor C. Wuchter seim Gedicht:
Nix dummers gebt's uff daere Welt
Ass wann der Mensch noch Hochmut zielt;
Sie greeschdi Aerbschaft in der Welt
Fer'n Linesupp am Disch verschpielt.
Wer weess net ass die deitschi Kunscht
Die Welt zum greesche Deel regiert;
Was waer des Land hett Yaenki Blut
Die Schipp un Grubbhack leensich gfiehrt?
Wie gsaat, 's hot deel so aarme Drepp
Ass ausgeaart sin, Kopp un Schwans;
Sie wolle yuscht meh Englisch sei,
Un wisse nix vum deitsche Hans.
Die Schprooch, uff kors, hot nix zu duh
Mit Menschesinn, Verschtand un Recht;
Die Haabtsach iss, wann ebber blufft,
Un schtammt doch her vum deitsch Gschlecht.
In Gscheft un Wattschaft fliegt so oft
Die gut alt Aerbschaft in die Luft;
'S bleibt nix meh iwwrich, wammer sucht,
Wie ebbes vun so Neweduft.
'S hot deel so Dummlack iwwerall.
Waer's eener yuscht, waer's schunn zu viel:
Was will mer dann? En Abbel fallt
Oft weit vum Schtamm mit Waarem un Schtiel.
Wer greischt, Gemiet un Sinn un Seel,
Verkaaft fer Bissel Mensche Aehr,
Hot doch am End ken dank defor,
Un macht sich Dot un Lewe schwer.
'S iss schee wer gschliffe Englisch kann
Franseesich, Schpannisch, Hottentot;
'S iss awwer schlimm wann eens sei Blut
Un Mudderschtamm verlegelt hot.
Ya, 's ebt so Mensche hie un do,
Wie faule Kasche uffem Baam;
Sie schemme sich fer Deitsch zu sei-
So blohe Molke unne Raahm!
Sie mache's graad wie'n Ochs ass meent
Ins Nochbere Feld waer siesserses Graass;
Sie tschumpe noh die Fens un gehn
Datt uffem Boddem mit der Naas.
'S iss draurich wammer driwwer denkt-
Yuscht wer iss's ass noch denke dutt?
Die Alde hen ihr Fehler ghatt-
Villeicht schteckt heit noch deel im Blut;
Maag sei wie's will, 's iss ebbes letz,
Die Welt iss aryets gans verdreht,
Wann uff me ald Graabschteh mol
Ken Enkel weess was gschriwwe schteht.
Macht's gut,
Der Alt Professer
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Dear people:
Today we will continue with Astor C. Wuchter's poem:
There is nothing stupider in this world
Than when a person aims for pride
Gambles away his greatest inheritance
For lentil soup at the table.
Who doesn't know that PG skills
For the most part rules the world;
What would this land be if Yankee blood
All alone guided the shovel and grubax?
As I've said, there are some poor chaps
Who have degenerated, head and tail;
They just want to be more English,
And know nothing of the German (PG) Hans.
Language, of course, has nothing to do
With human sense, reason and truth;
The main thing is when someone bluffs
And yet stems from PG stock.
In work and business flies so often
Good old inheritance into the air;
There remains nothing left, when one looks,
Except something like a side fragrance.
There are such dummies everywhere,
If it were just one, it would still be too many;
What does one want? An apple falls
Often far from trunk with worms and stems.
Whoever shouts, mood and mind and soul,
Sells human honor for very little,
In the end has no thanks for it,
And makes himself dead and life heavy.
It's nice whoever knows English fluently,
French, Spanish, Hottentot;
But it's terrible when someone has
Denied his blood and mother's stock.
Yes, there are such people now and then,
Like rotten cherries on the tree;
They are ashamed to be Pennsylvania Dutch-
Blue whey without cream!
They act like an ox that thinks
In his neighbor's field the grass is sweeter;
They then jump the fence and go/fall
There on the ground with their nose.
It's sad when you think about it-
Just who is it who still thinks?
The Elders had their faults-
Perhaps still today some sticks in the blood;
Be that as it may, there's something wrong,
The world is somehow all twisted,
If on an old gravestone
No grandchild knows what is written.
Take care,
The Old Professor
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