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by [?]

TO Amsterd-m came Breitmann
All in de Kermes tide;
Yonge Maegden allegader
Filled de straat on afery side.
De meisjes in de straaten
Vere tantzin alle nacht long;
Dere vas kissen, dere vas trinken,
Mit a roar of Holland song.

Who went into de straaten
Ven de sonn had gone his day,
De Dootch gals quickly grapped him
Und tantzed him wild avay.
Dere was der Prinz von Capua,
Who fell among dese wags;
Dey tantzed him off in a carmagnole,
Und sent him home in rags.

Und den at afery gorner,
So peaudifool to see,
De volk vas bilin dough-nuts,
Or else vas fryin tea.
Und Kermes cakes mit boetry,
Vitch land-volk dinks a dreat,
Mit all of Barnum’s blayed out shows
In dents along de shdreet.

Id pring de tears to Breitmann’s eyes,
To find in many a shtand
Vot oft he’d baid a quarder for
To see in a distand land.
De Aztec dwins und de Siamese
(Dough soom vere a wachsen sham);
Mit de Beardet Frau und de Bear Woman-
All here in Amsterdam

De fashion here in Nederland
Ish not vot you’d soopose,
Mit oos, men bays de vomens,
Boot de Dootch gals hires deir beaux!
Dey hire dem for de season,
Und because moosh rain ish fell,
Dey alvays bays a higher brice,
For a man mit an umberell.

Und dere vas Nord Hollander maids,
So woonderfool to see,
Mit caps of gold und goldne pins,
Und quaint orféverie.
Likewise de Zeeland Boersmen,
Mit silber bootons gay;
Und silber belts, und silber knives,
Mijn Gott! – how sdrange vere dey!

But dough de men wore silber gear,
Und de vrouws in gold were tall,
De gals vere gabblin all de dimes,
Und de men said noding at all.
“Dey say dat sbeech is silbern,
Boot silence golden pe,
Dat aint de vay dey vork id here,”
Said Breitemann, said he.

Goot Gott! how Breitmann vent it,
In moonlighdt or in rain;
Den vakened to Schied-m it,
Ven de mornin peamed again.
For to solfe von awfool broplem,
He vas efer shdill incline;
If – den wijn is beter als de min,[1]
Or – de min doet veel meer als de wijn.

Dwo weeks der Breitmann studiet,
Vile he vent it on de howl.
He shpree so moosh to find de troot,
Dat he lookt like a bi-led owl.
Den he say, “Ik wil honor Bacchus,
So long as ik leven shall;
Boot not so moosh vercieren
As to blace him ofer all.

De rose of lofe is lofely
In zomer ven it plow;
De bush shdill gifes a bromise,
In winter mid de shnow;
Ja, als de bloeme is geplukt,
En van den steel genomen,[2]
Ve know de peautiful vill life,
Till zomer is gekomen.

Boot oh dose vas arch-heafenly dimes,
Ven by mine lofe I sat;
Und see de maedchen pring de grapes,
Und crash dem in a vat.
Und ven her glances unto mine
In plessfool ropture toorn;
I dink dere ne’er vas no dwo crapes
Like dem plue eyes of hern.

Wat is soeter als de trinken,[3]
Ja – niet kan beter zyn.
Niet is soeter as de minne,
It smackt nog beter als wijn.
Es giebt nichts wie die Mädchen,
Es gibt nichts wie das Bier,
Wer liebt nicht alle beide,
Wird gar kein Cavalier.

O vot ve vant to quickest come
Ish dat vot’s soonest gone.
Dis life ish boot a passin from
de efer-gomin-on.
De gloser dat ve looks ad id,
De shmaller it ish grow;
Who goats und spurs mit lofe und wein,
He makes it fastest go.

“If wine is better than loving,
Or if love doth much more than wine.”

“Yes, when the flower is plucked,
And taken from the stem.”

“What is sweeter than this drinking?
Yes – naught can better be
Naught is sweeter, though, than loving;
It tastes better than wine to me.
There’s nothing like the maidens,
There’s nothing like good beer,
And he who does not love them both
Can be no cavalier.”