PA German Dialect

Es Neinuhr Schtick

                                                                        
May 13,2004

Ihr liewe Leit:

   Heit lese mer weider vun dem Dichder wu en Zeitlang in Hegins gewuhnt hot. Er waar 1870 in Ashland, PA gebore, awwer sei Elder waare alle beed vum Machadungie Daal. In 1922 hot der Dichder gschriwwe ass sei Vadder en Siffer waar, un wie sei Mudder gschtarrewe iss - der Dichder waar graad siwwe Yaahr alt - hot sei Vadder so arrig gsoffe ass er du Bu net im Haus hawwe hot wolle. Ee Daag iss en Mann - en Blutsfreind villeicht - kumme un hot der Yung mit heem genumme, un heem waar Hegins wu der "Unkel" en Schtor un Wattshaus ghatt hot, un wu der Bu nadierlich dann hot mithelfe misse. Wie er alt genung waar fer die Schul zu verlosse, hot er dann der gans Daag mithelfe misse.

   Der Dichder hot weider gschriwwe ass der Unkel ihm uff eemol gsaat hot er mist aus em Haus. Mit graad die Gleeder vu er uffem Buckel ghatt hot is ser zerrick zu Ashland geloffe (es hot der gans Daag genumme) un iss zu Aent gange. Der neegscht Daag hot er kee Arrewet in de Meinds finne keene un iss zerrick zu Hegins wu er endlich Arrewet in re Seegmiehl gfunne hot.

   Net zu viel Yaahre schpeeder is er zu Lebanon gange, wu er aagfange hot in Pennsylvaanisch Deitsch zu schreiwe. Do iss en Beischpiel, "Die Unglicksbauerei":


'S iss gans zu schlimm, wie alles geht
   uff der Unglicksbauerei;
Un's macht nix aus wer Lehnsmann iss,
   en Unglick iss debei.
Duh was er kann, es geht net lang,
  es kummt en Hoke nei;
Mer meent es Unglick waer geblanst
   uff der Unglicksbauerei.


Sie hen mol gsaat es waer en Mann
   ass brauche kennt fer Glick,
Dann hen sie'n gholt (der aarem Dropp
   geht sidder an re Grick);
Der Hund hot ihn gebisse
   un er graddelt uff en Baam;
Un schur genuck, schtatzt runner
   un nau sidder is ser laahm.

Die Geil hen nau die Schtember
   un en Kuh der Wolf am Schwans;
En Esel fangt aa bocke nau,
   un gschtohle iss en Gans.
Die Oier sin bedickler poor,
  un gremlich sin die Sei;
Un's iss mightly hatt zu lewe
   uff der Unglicksbauerei.


   Mer misse neegscht Woch weidermache. (Nee, kee Blatz fer eich zu saage wer der Dichder waar!)

Macht's gut,
Der Alt Professer

 
Dear people:

  Today we will continue to read about the poet who lived for a time in Hegins. He was born in 1870 in Ashland, PA, but his parents were both from the Macungie Valley. In 1922 the poet wrote that his father was a drunk/drinker, and when his mother died - the poet was only seven years old - his father drank so hard that he didn't want the boy in the house. One day a man - a blood relative, perhaps -- came and took the youth home with him, and home was Hegins where the " uncle" had a store and inn/tavern where the boy naturally had to help along. When he was old enough to leave school, he then had to help out the whole day.

 
   The poet continued to write that suddenly the uncle told him he would have to get out of the house. With only the clothes that he had on his back, he walked back to Ashland (it took the entire day) and went to an aunt. The next day he couldn't find any work in the mines and went back to Hegins where he finally found work in a sawmill.


   Not too many years later he went to Lebanon, where he began to write in Pennsylvania German. Here is an example, 'The Bad Luck/Unlucky Farm":


It's just too terrible how everything goes
    on the bad luck farm;
And it makes no difference who the tenant farmer is,
   he's accompanied by misfortune.
Do what he can, it doesn't take long,
   a hook comes into the picture;
One could think misfortune is planted
   on bad luck farm.

They once said that there was a man
   who could pow-wow for luck.
Then they fetched him (the poor fellow
   now goes on a crutch):
The dog bit him
   and he climbs up a tree;
And sure enough, he falls down
   and now he is lame.

The horses now paw/stamp the ground
   and a wolf has a cow by the tail;
A donkey is starting to buck now,
   and stolen is the goose.
The eggs are particularly poor,
   and the pigs are cramped;
And it's mighty hard to live
   on the bad luck farm.

   We will have to continue next week. (No, there is no more room to tell you who the poet was!)

Take care,
The Old Professor
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