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Poetry
Index
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|
Three
Swabian Trek Poems (Banat) |
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Bader,
Hans |
Dei
Heimat is jetz do / Your Homeland is Now Here |
|
Dama, Hans |
Temeswar |
|
Dama, Hans |
Banater Bergland
/ Montan Banat |
|
Eminescu, Mihai |
Mother |
|
Gabriel
d. Ä.,
Josef |
's gibt
vielerlei Narre! / There are many kinds of
fools!
|
|
Kirsch,
Nikolaus |
Morawitz |
|
Jung, Peter |
Mein
Heimatland / My Homeland |
|
Jung,
Peter |
Nacht
auf der Heide / Night on the Heath |
|
Klugesherz,
Lorenz |
Mercydorf |
|
Klingler,
Horst |
Kleinjetscha
(Easter Poem, needs translation) |
|
Lenau,
Nikolaus |
Einst
und Jetzt / Then and Now |
|
Müller-Guttenbrunn,
Adam |
Banater
Schwabenlied / Song of Banat Swabians |
|
Mutter,
Ferdinand |
October
Snow |
|
Schiff, Peter |
Poetry
Collection 1934 |
|
Schaff, Peter |
Josefdorf
(Easter Poem, needs translation) |
|
Szentra, Lorenz |
My
Heimatland /
My Homeland |
|
Thuro, Sr.,
Andreas |
Song of
the Colonists |
|
Thuro, Sr.,
Andreas |
Windmill
Grinds |
|
Wagner,
Johann |
Ackre /
Plowing |
Swabian
Trek Poems . . .
The
following three poems are from the book 'Banat Gedichte'
(Banat Poems) and were contributed to the Alexanderhausen
Heimatbuch by Philipp J. Brandl.
|
Der erste Schwabenzug
|
|
The First Swabian trek |
|
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translated
by Diana Lambing
|
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Kaum war der Türk' vertrieben, An seine Pforte
klein, Kamen deutsche Menschen, Um Banater zu
sein
Sie kamen her in Scharen, Bevölkerten das Land,
Temeschburg und Weiskirchen, In aller erster
Hand.
Auch Mercydorf und Jahrmarkt, Genau so
Guttenbrunn - Errichtet wurden freudigst Die
Dörfer ringsherum.
Die Sümpfe lagen trocken, Die Flüsse in dem Bett.
Des Schwaben Hände säten, Als ging es um die
Wett. |
|
Hardly had the Turks been driven out, when
German people came through the small gateway in
order to become Banaters.
They came in droves and populated the country,
first of all Temeschburg and Weiskirchen.
Mercydorf and Jahrmarkt, too, as well as
Guttenbrunn, the villages were joyfully
established all around.
The marshes were dry, the rivers were in their
beds, the Swabian hands sowed seeds as though
they were in a competition. |
| |
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|
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Der zweite Schwabenzug |
|
The Second Swabian trek |
|
|
|
translated by
Diana Lambing
|
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Nach sieben Jahre Kriege War endlich nun mal Ruh'.
Viel Hunger und viel Elend Gesellte sich dazu
Man rührte laut die Trommel, Doch keinesfalls
zum Krieg - Die Schwaben mögen kommen, Wo Milch
und Honig fliesst.
Sie fuhren Donauabwärts Bis zu dem schönen Wien.
Von hier dann weiter südwärts, Wo Menschen
glücklich sind.
In
dreissig neuen Dörfer, Die Schwaben fröhlich
sind: Von Hatzfeld bis Sanktpeter, Herr, Frau
und auch das Kind. |
|
After seven years of war, there was peace at
long last, accompanied by much hunger and much
misery.
The drums were beaten loudly, but never for war,
for the Swabians like to come where milk and
honey flow.
They travelled down the Danube as far as
beautiful Vienna. From here, they carried on
southwards where people are happy.
In
thrity new villages, the Swabians are happy;
from Hatzfeld to Sanktpeter, man, woman and
child, too. |
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Der dritte Schwabenzug |
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The Third Swabian trek |
| |
|
translated by Diana Lambing
|
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Wieder braucht man Arbeitskräfte, Menschenhand
im Land Banat. Darum kamen deutsche Leute,
Kolonisten edler Tat.
War es auch ein schlechter Schachzug Von der
Hofkammer in Wien, Fronbauern zur
Bewirtschaftung Waren immer gut gesiehn.
Weil die Gegend aber blühte Und die Reben trugen
Wein, Ist der Siedler hier geblieben, Schenkte
sich mal kräftig ein. |
|
Work forces are needed again, human hands in the
Banat country. That's why the German people
came, noble acting colonists.
Even if it was a bad chess move by the Court
Chamber in Vienna, socage farmers for
cultivating the land were always well regarded.
But because the region blossomed and the vines
carried wine, the settler stayed here and poured
himself a generous helping. |
| Mein Heimatland
|
My Homeland |
by
Jung, Peter
|
translated by Rose Vetter
|
|
Leb wohl du
schönes Ungarland
Du bist jetzt unser Untergang
Unsern Ahnen hast gegeben
ein verwüstet Land zu pflegen.
Und für ihre Müh' und Plag'
Gibst Du uns den Bettelstab.
|
Farewell, fair land of
Hungary,
you've now become our ruin.
You gave our ancestors
a devastated land to tend,
and for their toil and pain
you reward us with the
beggar's staff. |
|
Einst
und Jetzt |
Then and
Now |
von Nikolaus Lenau
(gekürzt)
|
translated by Nick Tullius
|
|
”Möchte wieder in die Gegend,
Wo ich einst so selig war,
Wo ich lebte, wo ich träumte
Meiner Jugend schönstes Jahr!”
Also sehnt‘ ich in der Ferne
Nach der Heimat mich zurück,
Wähnend, in der alten Gegend
Finde ich das alte Glück.
Endlich war mir nun beschieden
Wiederkehr ins traute Tal;
Doch es ist dem Heimgekehrten
Nicht zu Mut wie dazumal.
Mögen deine Grüße rauschen
Vom Gestein, du trauter Bach;
Doch der Freund ist mir verloren,
Der in dein Gemurmel sprach. |
“How I wish I could go back there,
Where such happiness was mine,
Where I lived and where I dreamt
through
My youth’s year the most divine!”
While away I felt the longing
To return to the homeland,
The old bliss, I kept on hoping,
Would still be there close at hand.
Finally good fate and fortune
Brought me to that vale again;
But I found upon returning
That my hope had been in vain.
The old brook was there to greet me
Bouncing sounds from rocks around;
But my good friend’s voice was
missing,
From the rhapsody of sound. |
|
Nacht
auf der Heide |
Night on the Heath |
von Peter Jung
|
translated by Nick Tullius
|
Die Heide schlief. Ein
Blauer Traum
War auf sie ausgegossen.
Der Mond stand hoch im
Himmelsraum,
Und weit bis an der Erde
Saum
Ist weich sein Glanz
geflossen.
Ein Vogel rief. Es war ein
Schrei
Voll Sehnen und Verlangen;
Er klang an Busch und Baum
vorbei,
Riss jäh der Stille Flor
entzwei,
Der sanft mich hielt
umfangen.
Die Nacht war tief. Es roch
die Luft
Nach reifendem Getreide;
Sie Trug der Blüten süßen
Duft
Nach fernen Bergen, Tal und
Kluft
Von der Banater Heide.
|
The heath’s asleep. A deep
blue dream
Was softly spread across it.
The moon high in the sky
stood still
And far away to the world’s
seam
Sent his soft lustre
flowing.
A bird just called. It was a
cry
Of yearning and of longing;
Its sound went around shrub
and tree,
Abruptly split the silent
glee,
That sofltly had embraced
me.
The night was deep. Fragrant
the air,
Of ripening golden
wheatfields;
It carried the sweet
flowers’ scent
To far mountains, valleys,
canyons,
From the Heath of the Banat.
|
Peter Schiff
Poetry Collection 1934
|
I.
Thoughts
by
Peter Schiff
translated by Brad Schwebler
A hot summer day
The harvest time!
Hard work
The Banat – beautiful and fruitful
And suddenly: two hundred years
Great time!
II.
Ponder
by
Peter Schiff
translated by Brad Schwebler
Voice!
– Two hundred years
As they came
Our ancestors
Alsace-Lorraine, Rhine Valley
From the region of the Danube
They migrated
III.
Luxemburg
by
Peter Schiff
translated by Brad Schwebler
Friaul and Barcelona
Complete confidence
Fear not
Unknown section – deserted land
Their work – the right farming community
And the Banat |
IV.
Thankfulness
by
Peter Schiff
translated by Brad Schwebler
While searching incredibly at the view
Impenetrable
Unconquerable
The blue infinity
Godly – without space and time
High! High! – to God
V.
Gentleman, driver
by
Peter Schiff
translated by Brad Schwebler
His invisibleness
Great, sublime!
- was a Swabian
Always devout - for him farming
Complete hope, him trusting
So it remains also!
I.
Thoughts
by
Peter Schiff
translated by Brad Schwebler
The light evening wind
So delicate and soft
Drifts the same
There! – Mercydorf has this year
The two hundred year celebration!
My brave Swabian village! |
by Ferdinand Muttar of Mercydorf
translated
by Diana Lambing
The trees and bushes appear restrained.
Thickly fall the snowflakes;
Autumn already with winter’s breath
Shrouds the Earth’s colorful face.
All Life in surprised Nature,
Hearts, still buried in autumn,
Feel prematurely in the whiteness of forest and
field
Winter’s cares.
Strife has not yet faded away,
Protected is capricious happiness.
Fate wrung out of struggle
Breaks free behind the mist.
But Time flies, sinks into the Past.
With it, longings and deadlines vanish;
Colourful variety becomes monotony,
Fewer seconds tick in the minute.
And so in the bustle of the world
It appears to you, my loved ones and many
brothers,
That I become smaller in the greater Being,
The current of Life draws over.
And amongst the hustle and bustle, amongst loved
ones who be,
The tired heart beats lonely, abandoned - alone?
Cast your wandering eye upwards towards Heaven,
To the Guide of all Fate.
“Forgive, All Gracious One!
In Your hands lie Love and Hope,
For Your child lies security;
Closed doors are opened to him,
The uneasy heart is freed in You.”
Poem is taken from the book Mercydorf
by Klugesherz, Lorenz, Erich Lammert,
Anton Peter Petri, J. Zirenner, 1987.
|
Ackre |
Plowing |
von Johann Wagner
(*1870)
|
translated by Nick Tullius
|
De Hans is g'storb, sei armi Seel'
is schun im Himmel drowe,
Denn, weil er gar so wackrich war,
Derf sie beim Herrgott throne.
Seit Wuche huckt sie schun beim Thron
un werd allmählich kränkr;
De liewe Herrgott gsieht's un saat:
"Kumm, Hans, ich wer dir helfe.
Ich kanns net dulde, daß d' bei mir
dich tuscht vermaltretiere;
Geh hin wu D' willscht un wus dir g'fallt,
kannscht ruhich rumloschiere."
De Hans hat sich no ufgemacht,
im Himmel zu spaziere;
Doch 's hat net g'holf, er is bald gang
zum Herrgott appeliere.
Er saat: "Gottvat'r ! Hör' mich an!
Ich bin 's gewohnt, des Rackre,
Ich han de Plug am liebschte g'hat;
loßt mich im Himmel ackre!"
De Herrgott lacht un saat zum Hans:
"ich loß dir gere dei Wille,
Do hascht a Plug aus purem Gold,
tu jetz dei Wunsch erfülle."
De glücklischte is im Himmel jetz
de Hans, ganz ohne Sorche,
Bei Sterneglanz und Vogelsang
zieht 'r mit 'm Plug die Furche.
Un sterbt a Schwob, do han die Schmied'
im Himmel nichts zu lache,
Sie misse glei uf Gott's Befehl,
a Plug aus Gold mache.
Un alles kennt im Himmel glei
die Schwowe, wie sie ackre...
Wie sie in alli Ewichkeit
mit Luscht sich tun abrackre. |
Our Hans has died and his poor soul
Is already in heaven,
And since he was so good on earth,
It's sitting there, right next to God.
For weeks it has been sitting there,
And looking more and more unhappy;
God Father notices and says:
"Come here, Hans, let me help you.
I cannot stand it, if here with me
you're punishing yourself;
Go forth wherever you may wish,
And stay wherever you are happy."
So Hans got up and walked away,
And looked around in heaven;
It did not help, and soon he's back
With a request for Father.
He says: "God Father! Please now listen!
I'm used to work,
I liked my plow the best,
Please let me plow in heaven!"
And laughing loud God says to Hans:
"I'm glad to grant your wishes,
Here is a plow, it's made of gold,
Go plow so that you're happy."
Our Hans is now a happy soul,
Completely free of sorrows,
As starlight glows and birds are singing,
With his plow he draws deep furrows.
And when on earth a Schwob is dying,
The blacksmiths work in heaven,
To make a plow out of pure gold,
Because God has so commanded.
All souls in heaven know
The Schwobs and how they plow.
And how in all eternity
They're glad to keep on plowing. |
| |
|
|
Dei
Heimat is jetz do |
Your Homeland is Now Here |
von Hans Bader
|
translated by Nick Tullius
|
|
E Lewe lang hascht du geackert,
dich geploot, dei Feld bebaut,
taachaus, taachein dich abgerackert
un dich em Herrgott anvertraut,
hascht nie geklaat, gezweifelt nie,
die Hoffnung, nie de Mut verlor.
Warscht stolz uf dei Banat, un wie!
Un deiner Heimat ganz verschwor!
Dann hat mer dich uf Rußland g`schickt,
weilscht Deitscher warscht. Dei Hof, dei
Haus
hat druf en anre bal beglickt.
Mit deim Banat war`s gschwind dann aus!
Dei Weib, im Baragan is es geblieb!
Dei Sohn, die Flucht is`m gelung alleen!
Dich hat als Schwob mer dann vertrieb!
Du hascht geglaabt dei Herz bleibt stehn!
Mit Schmiergeld bischt uf Deitschland kumm,
mit leeri Hend un doch warscht froh!
Dei schenschti Johre sin aa rum;
Ee Troscht: Dei Heimat is jetz do! |
Your whole life long you plowed,
worked hard to till your fields,
day in, day out you slaved
and in your God you trusted,
you never complained, never had doubts,
never lost hope, nor courage.
How proud you were of your Banat!
How dedicated to your homeland!
They sent you then to Russia,
just for being German. Your farm, your
house,
soon made another happy.
Your Banat was ending fast!
Your wife rests in the Baragan!
Your son alone escaped!
A Swabian - they expelled you!
You thought your heart would break!
Bribes got you to Germany,
With empty hands, but cheerful!
Your best years are well behind you;
Be happy: your homeland is now here! |
Original
German version can be viewed:
www.das-banat.de
|
Banater
Schwabenlied |
|
Song of Banat Swabians
|
von Adam Müller-Guttenbrunn
|
|
translated by Nick Tullius
|
Es brennt ein Weh, wie
Kindertränen brennen,
wenn Elternherzen hart und stiefgesinnt.
O, daß vom Mutterland uns Welten trennen
und wir dem Vaterland nur Fremde sind.
Von deutscher Erde sind wir
abgeglitten
auf diese Insel weit im Weltenmeer.
Doch wo des Schwaben Pflug das Land
durchschnitten,
wird deutsch die Erde, und er weicht nicht
mehr.
O Heimat, deutschen Schweißes
stolze Blüte,
du Zeugin mancher herben Väternot,
wir segnen dich, auf daß dich Gott behüte,
wir stehn getreu zu dir in Not und Tod!
|
|
There burns a hurt, like
tears of children crying,
When parents’ hearts are like they’re made
of stone.
That from our motherland the worlds do part
us
And we’re called strangers in our
fatherland.
From German soil our
ancestors departed
To this small island in the global sea.
But where a Swabian’s plough the land made
fertile,
The soil is German, and he will not leave.
O homeland, proudest bloom of
German effort,
You witness of our fathers’ hardy deeds,
We bless you so that God may keep you,
We stand in faith with you in life and
death! |
Mother
von
Mihai Eminescu
translated by Nick Tullius
O mother, dearest mother, through rustling leaves of fall
Through fogs of bygone decades, I clearly hear your call;
Above your crypt of marble, so sacred and so black
The fall winds sway the willows, now forward and now back,
Their branches keep on rustling, as if your voice would weep.
Forever sway the willows, forever you must sleep.
When I shall die, my sweetheart, don't spill tears over me;
Break off a branch from that sweet-lime tree,
Plant at my headstone it without any fears,
And water slowly with all your heart's tears;
I'll feel its gentle shadows that over my grave sweep.
Forever grow the shadows, forever I must sleep.
And if by chance together our fate will be to die,
In no sombre graveyard should they make us lie,
A grave they'd better dig us, next to the river wide,
Together in a coffin place us side by side;
Heart-to-heart we'll lay there, a rest so long and deep.
Forever cry the waters, forever we must sleep.
|
's gibt vielerlei Narre! |
|
There are many kinds of
fools!
|
von
Josef Gabriel
d. Ä.
(from "Schwowische
Gsätzle ausm Banat")
|
|
translated by Nick Tullius
|
Ich well Euch
Leit uf dere Welt
Ke Menschekind verachte,
Nor Narre gebt es mancherlei,
Wann mr's tut gnau betrachte.
Der een is geizich, hängt am Geld,
Versperrt's un hiits em Kaschte,
Gunnt sich drvun ke Troppe Wein
Un tut sich mager faschte.
Manch anrer wieder lebt zu leicht,
Ke Kummer macht ihms Borche,
Un wieder eener werd fruh alt,
Griet grooi Hoor von Sorche.
Dort laaft der een de Haase noch,
Do zittert eene uf Karte,
Manch anner sucht bei Weibsleit Freed,
Werd närrisch uf solchi Arte.
Ich well jo jedi Närrschkeit net,
Die noch vorkummt, vergleiche
Un oftmals macht de bravschte Mann
Mitunner dummi Streiche.
Es losst am allerbeschte Mensch
Zuletscht sich was bemängle,
Drom welle mr ger Ricksicht han,
Em Himmel gebts nor Engle. |
|
Of all the
people in this world
No one we should look down on,
But fools – there are just so many
Don’t say you’re not aware of any.
One is tight, his god is money,
Locked up and guarded in his safe,
Does not enjoy a drop of wine,
Fasting has bent his spine.
The other lives on easy street,
Not worried if he borrows,
And still another ages fast,
Gets grey hair from sorrows past.
One likes only hunting rabbits,
Another one must play his cards,
A third just chases skirts all day,
His foolishness erupts this way.
Much silliness just happens
We should never quickly judge it,
And know that very clever men
May act foolish now and then.
Even the very best of men
May have his little weakness,
Forgive, and you won’t be lonely,
Angels are in heaven only. |
|
Meine Heimat |
My Homeland |
by
Szentra, Lorenz
|
translated
by Brad Schwebler
|
Meiner schönen Heimat
gleich
gibt es wohl kein zweites Reich
hier auf dem Weltenrad.
Und auf dieser großen Welt
nirgends mir es so gefällt
wie im schönen Banat.
Der Vögleinsang im
Azur,
im Blütenglanz Hain und Flur,
voll wunderschöner Saat;
auf den Höhen edler Wein,
Obst und Früchte wohl gedeihn
in dem Schönen Banat. |
There is no place in
the entire world
that equals to my beautiful homeland.
And nowhere in this large world
does it please me in such a way
as in the beautiful Banat.
The small birds
sang
to fully beautiful
seed in the azure,
in the bloom gloss
grove and corridor,
on the heights
noble wine,
fruit and fruits
probably thrive
in the beautiful
Banat.
|
Windmill Grinds
by
Thuro, Sr., Andreas
translated by Brad Schwebler
Sun shines,
Winds blow,
Mill grinds,
Winds go,
Swing wide,
Rustle, wave far,
Lured by the many winds,
Spellbinding in the roundabout play,
Serving in the yoke, they work, prevail.
Long hours, busily turn,
Grinding delay,
Hesitate – rear up
When it became red far in the evening,
Hurry away the wind trotting…
Leave the mill standing, alone…
It’s free, restrained,
And listen in the silent twilight
And dream…
Round tower
Powerful wings
Stand in the storm
On the hill,
Dark night
Darkness has power:
Roaring up from the valley and gorge,
Storm the night with fantastic force;
Wrestling wings, groaning,
Storm-tossed owls hoot;
Break – bend,
Drag – rock;
Finally whirl away the round dance –
Timidly creeps near the silence…
In the bosom of the night the storm varies.
The morning rewards
The mill hums her ancient song-
For bread…
Song of the Colonists
by
Thuro, Sr., Andreas
translated by Brad Schwebler
At the
plow I learned to go,
The need taught me to stand
Through the duty I came in walking…
with the view in the distance.
The day
brings me only plagues,
the night secretly gnawing
and the hunger at the threshold,
and the thirst my companion…
The seed
grows so poorly for me,
the mower throws so terribly
and the disaster in the clouds
loaded with weeds.
The song
goes in rounds,
the torment crowns me on the hour,
there the fate is in doses-
and the way leads to the grave.
Temeswar
Mai 2007 |
Temeswar
May 2007 |
by Hans Dama
|
translated
by Nick Tullius
|
Akazien in Blüte,
doch Häuser und Straßen
die Blüte vergaßen.
Der Sommer verfrühte,
die Rosen im Garten*
kein Lächeln erwarten -
dem Blicke erstarren,
einst golden sie waren.
Verstolperte Freude
zu unserem Leide
ist alles vollbracht.
Erschließendes Waren**,
verzögertes Werden...
Verhärmte Gesichter,
die Blicke kaum lichter
begegnen uns alt...
Die Bilder vertrüben,
den Abschied wir üben
verdrossen und kalt. |
Acacias in bloom,
but houses and roads
forgot the flower.
The summer came early,
the roses in the Garten*
do not expect a smile –
to our views stiffen,
but once they were
golden.
Stumbled joy
to our deep sorrow
it all is now done.
Developing has-been **,
a postponed becoming…
Careworn faces,
the gaze hardly lighter
appear to us old…
The pictures get cloudy,
we practice the parting
sulky and cold.
|
Erläuterung
[Explanation]:
* Rosengarten [Temeswar
Rose Garden]
** das nominal
gebrauchte Verbum SEIN
[from the verb TO BE]
Banater Bergland
Banat, Mai 2007 |
Montan Banat
Banat, May 2007 |
by Hans Dama
|
translated
by Nick Tullius
|
Entlang verstümmelter
Dörfer
ergieren* sich Bäche
an unermässlichem
Abfallreichtum –
als fatale
Feiertagsleckerbissen
für abgeschlanktes**
Weidevieh.
Entzauberte
Industriegiganten
ernten den Spott
dornröschenhafter k.u.k.
- Fossilien.
Verwittwette Hoffnung
für Allzeit.... |
Along mutilated villages
brooks greedily* emerge
on immeasurable wealth
of waste
as fatal holiday
delicacies
for slimming-down **
grazing cattle.
Disenchanted industrial
giants
deserving the mockery
as sleeping-beauty k.u.k.
*** fossils.
Widowed hope
for eternity….
|
Erläuterungen
[Explanations]:
* von "gierig"
** von "schlank"
* from "greedy"
** from "slim"
*** k.u.k = [of the]
Austro-Hungarian
[Empire]
|
Mercydorf |
Mercydorf |
by
Lorenz Klugesherz
|
translated by Anne Redick
|
Wir haben geklewert zum
heiligen Grabe,
bescheret Gott uns mit einer Gabe,
nicht zu gross und nicht zu klein,
es geht noch was ins Kerwl rein.
Eier raus, Geld heraus
oder wir schicken den Fuchs ins Hinglshaus!
Wir hören die Jungrau klingeln,
sie möcht usn etdwas bringenÖ
Eier oder Geld, sonstd was ihr gefällt,
nur keine Schlää,
denn die tun sehr weh.
Wir haben geklewert zum heilgen Osterfest,
das Liedschen ist gesungen, der Grosche ist gewonnen.
die Taube fliegt ins weite Feld, bald ein, bald aus.
Die Ostereier raus! Gefärtre Eier raus!.
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We
rattled to the holy grave,
may God bestow a gift on us,
not too large and not too small,
there is still room in the basket.
Hand over eggs, hand over money
or we'll send the fox into the hen house!
We hear the maiden ring
she wants to bring us something
eggs or money, whatever she pleases
only no beating because that hurts very much.
We have rattled to the holy Easter Celebration,
the song has been sung, the Grosche (=coin)
has been won, the dove flies to the far off field,
to and from.
Hand over the Easter eggs!
Hand over the colored eggs!
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Easter Poems -
Translations needed...
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Kleinjetscha |
Kleinjetscha |
by
Horst
Klingler
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translated by
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Oh Leit, oh
Leit, oh liewe Leit,
mir kumme uf die heilische Osterezeit.
Gibt uns Eier, gibt uns Geld,
wie es eurem Herz gefält.
Glick ins Haus, Glick ins Haus,
Unglick zum Rochfang hinaus!
Ostereier heraus!
Wann net, schlan mer e Loch in Haus!
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Easter Poem -
Translation needed...
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Josefdorf |
Josefdorf |
by
Peter Schaff
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translated by
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Do kumme die
heiliche Fraue,
sie wolle des Grab anschaue.
Do kummt de Herr Jejus Christ,
der for uns gestoren ist.
Gebt uns Aier, gebt uns Geld
alles, was euch gut fefällt,
nur kä Schlää, die tun weh!
Glick ins Haus, Unglick raus,
wo wir gehn wo wir stehn. |
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Easter Poem -
Translation needed...
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Morawitz |
Morawitz |
by
Nikolaus Kirsch
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translated by
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O Leit, o Leit,
o liewi Leit,
jetzt kummt die heilige Osterzeit.
Gebt uns Aier, gebt uns Geld,
gebt uns nur, was euch gefällt,
nur ka Schlää, die tut weh,
Raie, raie, ritye, braie,
drei ein halbe kiloweiss,
die Junfrau wird schon bringen.
Was wird sie uns denn brigen?
Eiere oder Gedl? |
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