DER Breitmann sits in la Sorbonne,
A note-pook in his hand,
'Tvas dere he vent to lectures,
Und in oldt Louis le Grand.
Id's more ash two und dwendy years
Since here I used mein pen;
Oh, where ish all de characders,
Dat I hafe known since denn?
Der cratest boet efer vas,
Der pest I efer known,
Vent lecdures here, too, shoost like me,
Le Sieur Francoys Villon.
He raise de teufel all arount,
He hear de Sorbonne chime;
Crate shpirid ender in mein heart,
Und mofe mein soul to rhyme.
BALADE.
Dictes moy - in what shpirit land
Ish Clara Lafontaine?
Or Pomare, or La Frisette,
Who blazed on soosh a train?
Shveet Echo flings de quesdion pack,
O'er lake or shdreamlet lone;
All eartly peauty fades afay,
Vhere ish dem lofed ones gone?
Oh, vhere ish Lola Montez now,
So loved in efery land?
How oft I shmoked dose cigarettes
She rollt mit vairy hand!
Dat mighdy soul, dat shplendit brick,
A saint's pecome to be,
For mit soosh saints der Breitmann make
His Hagiologie.
Und vhere ish La Pochardinette?
Ish she too mit de dead?
She loafed de Latin Quarter mit
A hat und fedder on her het.
Lebe wohl petite Pochardinette!
Qui ne safait refuser,
Ni la ponche a la bleine ferre,
Ni sa pouche a un paiser.
O Prince! dese quesdions all are nix,
I sit here all alone,
Mit von refrain to end de shdrain,
Vhere ish mein lofed vons gone?
Vhen Marcovitch has cut und run,
Und Schneider's off de ving,
Some cray old reprobate like me
Vill of dese lofed vons sing.
