PA German Dialect

Es Neinuhr Schtick

April 7, 2005

Ihr liewe Leit:

   Kaum zu glaawe! Heit fange mer unser zwee-unzwansichschde Yaahr aa! Mer feiere unser “Gebottsdaag” mit me Gedicht vum Astor C. Wuchter (1856-1922):

‘S hot blendi Leit in unsrer Zeit,
   Well, ennihau, es hot so deel,
Sie wolle ebbes Exdraa sei –
   So Kuche, weescht, vum feinschde Mehl.
Der Urgroosdaadi iss mol ab
   So mit me Schnuppduch amme Schtock –
Sell waar ken Schand, waar’n ehrlich Hatz
   Am gloppe unnerm Kittelrock.

Die menschde sin datt driwwe fatt
   So aarrem in Fackt wie Karrichmeis;
Viel Grieg un allerhand vun Not
   Hot sie gezwunge 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 darrichgeschafft;
‘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 schenschde Geld
   In’s alde Vadderland zerrick.

Mer meent Gott hett’s so eigericht
   Dass sie ins Land do kumme sin;
Die bescht Supp hot ken Saft un Gschmack,
   Iss gaar en Sals un Peffer drin.
Sie waare ehrlich, schtreng un fromm,
   Die Kinner grischtlich unnerricht;
Gebet un Gsunge, wie mer’s heit
So wennich unnerm Volk meh sicht.

‘S hot freilich aa in sellre Zeit
   So Leckendaun un Raeskel ghatt
Ass driwwe nix un hiwwe 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 alles guckt wie’n Gaardesschtrich.

Die Alde sin schunn lang im Graab,
Sie ruhe uffem Hiwwel datt;
Un deitsch Gemiet un Deitscher Sinn
Iss aa zu oft mit ihne fatt.
Deel hen die Naame gans verdreht,
Un newwebei noch’s Hatz dezu;
Wann’s selli Alde wissde des,
   ‘S waer’n Dann in ihre Graabesruh.

   Mer misse neegscht Woch weidermache.

Macht’s gut,
Der Alt Professer

Dear people:

   Hard to believe! Today we begin our twenty-second year! We are going to celebrate out “Birthday” with a poem by Astor C. Wuchter (1856-1922):

There are plenty of people in our time,
   Well, anyhow, there are a few,
They want to be something extra
   Like cake, you know, of the finest flour.
Great-grandfather once took off
   With a handkerchief on a stick –
That was no shame, there was an honest heart
   Beating under his jacket.

Most of them went away from over there
   As poor, in fact, as church mice;
Much war and all kinds of distress
   Forced them to take the trip.
Many even sold themselves
   For the fare over land and sea;
Then they worked in indentured 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 the 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 among the people.

Of course, also at that time
   There were bums and rascals
Who over there and over here all their
   Were of no worth to the world.
As we've said, most of them came over
   For the good of the children, wives and 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;
   Often went away with them.
Some changed their names entirely,
   Along with their hearts;
If the old ones knew that,
   It would be a thorn in their grave-rest.

We will have to continue next week.

Take care,
The Old Professor

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updated 3-15-2007 paf