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Schnitzerl’s Philosopede
by [?]

Die Speer die er thut führen
die ist sehr gross und lang,
Das sollt du glauben mire,
gemacht von Vogelsgang.
Sein Ross das ist die Heide,
das sollt du glauben mir,
Darauf er nun thut reiten,
führwahr das sag ich dir.
Ein schön nerr Lied von dem Mai Und

von dem Herbst
. 16th century.



HERR SCHNITZERL make a ph’losopede,
Von of de pullyest kind;
It vent mitout a vheel in front,
And hadn’t none pehind.
Von vheel vas in de mittel, dough,
And it vent as sure ash ecks,
For he shtraddled on de axel dree,
Mit der vheel petween his lecks.

Und vhen he vant to shtart it off
He paddlet mit his feet,
Und soon he cot to go so vast
Dat efery dings he peat.
He run her out on Broader shtreed,
He shkeeted like der vind,
Hei! how he bassed de vancy crabs,
And lef dem all pehind!

De vellers mit de trottin nags
Pooled oop to see him bass;
De Deutschers all erstaunished saidt:
“Potztausend! Was ist das?”
Boot vaster shtill der Schnitzerl flewed
On – mit a ghastly shmile;
He tidn’t tooch de dirt, py shings!
Not vonce in half a mile.

Oh, vot ish all dis eart’ly pliss?
Oh, vot ish man’s soocksess?
Oh, vot ish various kinds of dings?
Und vot ish hobbiness?
Ve find a pank node in de shtreedt,
Next dings der pank ish preak!
Ve folls, and knocks our outsides in,
Vhen ve a ten shtrike make.

So vas it mit der Schnitzerlein
On his philosopede.
His feet both shlipped outsidevard shoost
Vhen at his exdra shpeed.
He felled oopon der vheel of coorse;
De vheel like blitzen flew!
Und Schnitzerl he vos schnitz in vact,
For it shlished him grod in two.

Und as for his philosopede,
Id cot so shkared, men say,
It pounded onward till it vent
Ganz tyfelwards afay.
Boot vhere ish now der Schnitzerl’s soul?
Vhere dos his shbirit pide?
In Himmel droo de endless plue,
It takes a medeor ride.



Vhen Breitmann hear dat Schnitzerl
Vas quardered into dwo,
Und how his crate philosopede
To ‘m tyfel had peen flew,
He dinked und dinked so heafy,
Ash only Deutschers can,
Denn saidt, “Who mighdt peliefet
Dish is de ent of man?”

“De human souls of beoples
Exisdt in deir idées,
Und dis of Wolfram Schnitzerl
Mighdt drafel many vays.
In his Bestimmung des Menschen
Der Fichte makes pelieve,
Dat ve brogress oon-endtly
In vhat pehindt ve leave.

“De shparrow falls ground-downvarts
Or drafels to de West;
De shparrows dat coom afder,
Bild shoost de same old nest.
Man had not vings or fedders,
Und in oder dings, ’tis set,
He tont coom up to shparrows,
But on nests he goes ahet.

“O! vliest dou droo bornin’ vorldts,
Und nebuloser foam,
By monsdrous mitnight shiant forms,
Or vhere red tyfels roam;
Or vhere de ghosdts of shky-rockets
Peyond creation flee?
Vhere e’er dou art, O Schnitzerlein,
Crate Saindt! Look down on me!

“Und deach me how you maket
Dat crate philosopede,
Vhich roon dwice six mals vaster
Ash any Arap shteed.
Und deach me how to ‘stonish volk,
Und knock dem oud de shpots.
Coom pack to eart’, O Schnitzerlein,
Und pring id down to dots!”

Shoost ash dish vordt vent outvarts,
Hans dinked he saw a vlash,
Und oonterwards de dable
He doompelt mit a crash.
Und to him, moong de glasses,
Und pottles ash vas proke,
Mit his het in a cigar-box,
A foice from Himmel shpoke: