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Scheveningen, Or De Maiden’s Coorse
by [?]

Oldt Flämisch.

HET vas Mijn Heer van Torenborg,
Ride oud oopon de sand,
Und vait to hear a paardeken;
Coom tromplin from de land.
He vaited vhen de boeren volk
Vent oud oopon de plain,
He vaited dill de veary crows
Flew nestwarts home acain.

He vaited ash de wild fox vaits
In long-some hoonger noth,
He vaited dill de flitterin bats
Vere plack on Abendroth.
Id’s woe to watch for taily bread
Or bide forgotten call,
Boot oh, to vait for heartsen lofe
Ish veariest of dem all.

“O dat ish not mine laity’s prooch
Shoost now so star-like shined,
O dat ish not mine laity’s haar
Soft floatin on de wind.
Her goot crayhound mit soosh a step
Vas nefer vont to go,
Und dat is niet her paardeken
Whose shtep so vell I know.

“Dat light ish speer light from a lanz
Vitch’ll part mine pody und soul,
De floatin haar is a pennon gay
Or wafin banderol.
De crayhound ish a ploot-hound wild
Vitch long has dracked me here,
Und het paardeken ish a var-horse
Vot has hoonted me like deer.”

Well shpoke Mijn Heer van Torenborg
All drue vas afery wordt,
For dey bored him troo mit lanzen,
Und dey hewed him mit de swordt.
Dey killt him armloss, harmlos;
De plooty reiver band;
Und puried him so careloosly
Dat his vace shtick out de sand.

Boot e’er night’s plack hat toorned to red
Or e’er de stars vere gone,
Dere came de shtep of a paardeken
Soft tromplin, tromplin on.
A laity fair climped off on him
Und trip mit dainty toes:-
Boot oh, mijn Gott! – how she vas shkreem
Ven she trot on her drue lofe’s nose!

“Oh vot ish dis I trots opon?
Id’s shape fool well I know,
Dere nefer yet vas flower like dis,
Dat in de garten crow.
Dere nefer yet vas fruit like dis
Ash ripen on a dree;
Het is Mijn Heer van Torenborg
Dat kan ik blainly see.

“Dat heerlijk nose, van Torenborg,
Ish known of anciend dime,
‘Tis writ in olten chronikel
Und sung in minsdrel rhyme.
Und dis, de noblest of de race
Since hishdory pegans,
Ish shtickin here – shdraighdt out de dirt,
Shoost like some boer manns.

“Oh cuss de man dat mordered him!
Ach, cuss him oop and down,
Ja – cuss him troo de forest roads,
Und tamn him in de toun!
Und burn his vater und moder,
Vhere’er deir vootshteps vall,
Mit his schwesters und his broders,
De teufel rake dem all!

“May afery cuss dat e’er vas cusst,
Since cussin foorst pegan;
Pe hoorled in von drementous cuss,
Acainsdt dat nasdy man!
From de foorst crate cuss on Adam,
To de smalles’ of de crop”-
Here de tead man gafe a shifer,
Und gry oud – “For Gott’s sake – shdop!
“Dere’s a cerdain lot of shwearin,
Vitch anger alvays crafes;
Boot spite like dat’s enof to pring
De tead men from deir craves.
I can’t lie here no longer,
Und hear soosh pizen pain;
Und since you’ve shtirred me out, I kess
I’ll coom to life acain.”

Mit von drementous shkreem of pliss,
His drue lofe shtood de shock,
Den catcht him wildly py de nose,
“Ach Torenborg – lev’st du nock!
Ach ja – du aint’st nod tead yet!
Dere’s life shdill lef’ pehind,
Gott pless de dat lef’ dy nose,
Shdill wafin in de wind.”

Mit hands all ofer diamonds,
She loosed de sand apout,
Mit an oyster-shell so wildly
She digged her lofer out.
“Und now dou’rt in free air, lofe!
Who warst shoost now in sand!
Dere vasn’t ish a nicer man,
In all de Nederland!

Vhere vas dit liedeken written,
Vhere vas dit liedeken sing,
Dat had gedone Hans Breitmann,
In de town of Schevening!
‘Tvas written ober Rheinwein,
‘Tvas written ober bier-
Und wer das lied gesungen hat,
Gott geb ihm ein glucklich’s jahr.[1]

“And to him who sung this song,
God give a happy year!”