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“Wohlauf mine pully cafaliers,
Ve’ll ride to shoorsh to-day,
Each man ash hasn’t cot a horse
Moost shteal von, rite afay.
Dere’s a raw, green corps from Michigan,
Mit horses on de loose,
You men ash vants some hoof-irons,
Look out and crip deir shoes.”

All brooshed und fixed, de cavallrie,
Rode out py moonen shine,
De cotton fields in shimmerin light,
Lay white as elfenbein.
Dey heard a shot close py Lavergne,
Und men who rode afay,
In de road a-velterin his his ploot,
A Federal picket lay.

Und all dat he hafe dimes to say,
“Vhile shtandin at my post,
De guerillas got first shot at me,”
Und so gafe oop de ghost.
Denn a contrapand, who helt his head,
Said: “Sah – dose grillers all
Is only half a mile from hy’ar,
A dancin at a ball.”

Der Breitmann shpoke and brummed it out
Ash if his heart tid schvell:
“I’ll gife dem music at dat pall
Vill tantz dem into hell.”
Hei! – arrow-fast – a teufel’s ride!
De plack man led de vay,
Dey reach de house – dey see de lights-
Dey heard de fiddle blay.

Dey nefer vaited for a word
Boot galloped from de gloom,
Und, bang! – a hoonderd carpine shots
Dey fired indo de room.
Oop vent de groans of vounded men,
De fittlin died away:
Boot some of dem vere tead pefore
De music ceased to blay.

Denn crack und smack coom scotterin shots
Troo vindow und troo door,
Boot bang and clang de Germans gife
Anoder volley more.
“Dere – let ’em shlide. Right file to shoorsh!”
Aloudt de orders ran.
“I kess I paid dem for dat shot,”
Shpeak grim der Breitemann.

All rosen red de mornin fair
Shone gaily o’er de hill,
A violet plue de shky crew teep
In rifer, pond, und rill;
All cloudy grey de limeshtone rocks
Coom oop troo dimmerin wood;
All shnowy vite in mornin light
De shoorsh pefore dem shtood.

“Now loudet vell de organ, oop,
To drill mit solemn fear;
Und ring also dat Lumpenglock
To pring de beoples here.
Und if it prings guerillas down,
Ve’ll gife dem, py de Lord,
De low-mass of de sabre, and
De high-mass of de cord.[2]

“Du, Eberlé aus Freiburg,
Du bist ein Musikant,
Top-sawyer on de counterpoint
Und buster in discánt,
To dee de soul of musik
All innerly ish known,
Du canst mit might fullenden
De art of orgel-ton.

“Derefore, a Miserére
Vill dou, be-ghostet, spiel,
Und vake be-raiséd, yearnin,
Also a holy feel:-
Pe referent, men – rememper
Dis ish a Gotteshaus-
Du Conrad – go along de aisles
Und schenk de whiskey aus!:

Dey blay crate dings from Mozart,
Beethoven, und Méhul
Mit chorals of Sebastian Bach
Soopline und peaudiful.
Der Breitmann feel like holy saints,
De tears roon down his fuss;
Und he sopped out, “got verdammich – dis
Ist wahres Kunstgenuss!”[3]

Der Eberlé blayed oop so high,
He maket de rafters ring;
Der Eberlé blayed lower, und
Ve heardt der Breitmann sing
Like a dronin wind in piney woods
Like a nightly moanin sea:
Ash de dinked on Sonntags long agone
Vhen a poy in Germany.

Und louder und mit louder tone
High oop de orgel blowed,
Und plentifuller efer yet
Around de whiskey goed.
Dey singed ash if mit singin, dey
Might indo Himmel win:-
I dink in all dis land soosh shprees
Ash yet hafe nefer peen.