Streetlife on Saturday afternoonStreetlife on Saturday afternoonStreetlife am Samstag-Nachmittag
Just behind Hagen, night fell,
And I felt a strange chill in my guts.
I could only warm up again In Unna, at the inn.
There I found a pretty girl,
Who kindly poured me some punch;
Her curly hair like yellow silk,
Her eyes gentle like moonlight.
I recognized the lisping Westphalian accent With delight once more.
The punch steamed with sweet memories,
I thought of dear brothers.
The dear Westphalians with whom I so often drank in Göttingen,
Until we, moved, embraced each other
And sank under the tables!
I have always loved them so much,
The dear good Westphalians,
A people so steadfast, so sure, so loyal,
Completely without glitz and boasting.
How splendidly they stood on the Mensur, With their lion hearts!
The quarters and thirds fell so straight, so honestly meant.
They fence well, they drink well,
And when they reach out their hand to you,
For a bond of friendship, they cry;
They are sentimental oaks. (Continued in the 1st comment)Just behind Hagen, night fell,
And I felt a strange chill in my guts.
I could only warm up again In Unna, at the inn.
There I found a pretty girl,
Who kindly poured me some punch;
Her curly hair like yellow silk,
Her eyes gentle like moonlight.
I recognized the lisping Westphalian accent With delight once more.
The punch steamed with sweet memories,
I thought of dear brothers.
The dear Westphalians with whom I so often drank in Göttingen,
Until we, moved, embraced each other
And sank under the tables!
I have always loved them so much,
The dear good Westphalians,
A people so steadfast, so sure, so loyal,
Completely without glitz and boasting.
How splendidly they stood on the Mensur, With their lion hearts!
The quarters and thirds fell so straight, so honestly meant.
They fence well, they drink well,
And when they reach out their hand to you,
For a bond of friendship, they cry;
They are sentimental oaks. (Continued in the 1st comment)Dicht hinter Hagen ward es Nacht,
Und ich fühlte in den Gedärmen
Ein seltsames Frösteln. Ich konnte mich erst
Zu Unna, im Wirtshaus, erwärmen.
Ein hübsches Mädchen fand ich dort,
Die schenkte mir freundlich den Punsch ein;
Wie gelbe Seide das Lockenhaar,
die Augen sanft wie Mondschein.
Den lispelnden westfälischen Akzent
Vernahm ich mit Wollust wieder.
Viel süße Erinnerung dampfte der Punsch,
Ich dachte der lieben Brüder.
Die lieben Westfalen womit ich so oft in Göttingen getrunken,
Bis wir gerührt einander ans Herz
Und unter die Tische gesunken!
Ich habe sie immer so liebgehabt,
Die lieben guten Westfalen,
Ein Volk so fest, so sicher, so treu,
Ganz ohne Gleißen und Prahlen.
Wie standen sie prächtig auf der Mensur, Mit ihren Löwenherzen!
Es fielen so grade, so ehrlich gemeint, Die Quarten und Terzen.
Sie fechten gut, sie trinken gut,
Und wenn sie die Hand dir reichen,
Zum Freundschaftsbündnis, dann weinen sie;
Sind sentimentale Eichen. (Weiter im 1. Kommentar
Streetlife on Saturday afternoonStreetlife on Saturday afternoonStreetlife am Samstag-Nachmittag
Just behind Hagen, night fell,And I felt a strange chill in my guts.
I could only warm up again In Unna, at the inn.
There I found a pretty girl,
Who kindly poured me some punch;
Her curly hair like yellow silk,
Her eyes gentle like moonlight.
I recognized the lisping Westphalian accent With delight once more.
The punch steamed with sweet memories,
I thought of dear brothers.
The dear Westphalians with whom I so often drank in Göttingen,
Until we, moved, embraced each other
And sank under the tables!
I have always loved them so much,
The dear good Westphalians,
A people so steadfast, so sure, so loyal,
Completely without glitz and boasting.
How splendidly they stood on the Mensur, With their lion hearts!
The quarters and thirds fell so straight, so honestly meant.
They fence well, they drink well,
And when they reach out their hand to you,
For a bond of friendship, they cry;
They are sentimental oaks. (Continued in the 1st comment)Just behind Hagen, night fell,
And I felt a strange chill in my guts.
I could only warm up again In Unna, at the inn.
There I found a pretty girl,
Who kindly poured me some punch;
Her curly hair like yellow silk,
Her eyes gentle like moonlight.
I recognized the lisping Westphalian accent With delight once more.
The punch steamed with sweet memories,
I thought of dear brothers.
The dear Westphalians with whom I so often drank in Göttingen,
Until we, moved, embraced each other
And sank under the tables!
I have always loved them so much,
The dear good Westphalians,
A people so steadfast, so sure, so loyal,
Completely without glitz and boasting.
How splendidly they stood on the Mensur, With their lion hearts!
The quarters and thirds fell so straight, so honestly meant.
They fence well, they drink well,
And when they reach out their hand to you,
For a bond of friendship, they cry;
They are sentimental oaks. (Continued in the 1st comment)Dicht hinter Hagen ward es Nacht,
Und ich fühlte in den Gedärmen
Ein seltsames Frösteln. Ich konnte mich erst
Zu Unna, im Wirtshaus, erwärmen.
Ein hübsches Mädchen fand ich dort,
Die schenkte mir freundlich den Punsch ein;
Wie gelbe Seide das Lockenhaar,
die Augen sanft wie Mondschein.
Den lispelnden westfälischen Akzent
Vernahm ich mit Wollust wieder.
Viel süße Erinnerung dampfte der Punsch,
Ich dachte der lieben Brüder.
Die lieben Westfalen womit ich so oft in Göttingen getrunken,
Bis wir gerührt einander ans Herz
Und unter die Tische gesunken!
Ich habe sie immer so liebgehabt,
Die lieben guten Westfalen,
Ein Volk so fest, so sicher, so treu,
Ganz ohne Gleißen und Prahlen.
Wie standen sie prächtig auf der Mensur, Mit ihren Löwenherzen!
Es fielen so grade, so ehrlich gemeint, Die Quarten und Terzen.
Sie fechten gut, sie trinken gut,
Und wenn sie die Hand dir reichen,
Zum Freundschaftsbündnis, dann weinen sie;
Sind sentimentale Eichen. (Weiter im 1. Kommentar