THE CONTENTED FARMER.

I guess I’ll take my pouch, and fill My pipe just once,—­yes, that I will!  Turn out my plough and home’ards go:  Buck thinks, enough’s been done, I know.

  Why, when the Emperor’s council’s done,
  And he can hunt, and have his fun,
  He stops, I guess, at any tree,
  And fills his pipe as well as me.

  But smokin’ does him little good: 
  He can’t have all things as he would. 
  His crown’s a precious weight, at that: 
  It isn’t like my old straw hat.

  He gits a deal o’ tin, no doubt,
  But all the more he pays it out;
  And everywheres they beg and cry
  Heaps more than he can satisfy.

  And when, to see that nothin’ ’s wrong,
  He plagues hisself the whole day long,
  And thinks, “I guess I’ve fixed it now,”
  Nobody thanks him, anyhow.

  And so, when in his bloody clo’es
  The Gineral out o’ battle goes,
  He takes his pouch, too, I’ll agree,
  And fills his pipe as well as me.

  But in the wild and dreadfle fight,
  His pipe don’t taste ezackly right: 
  He’s galloped here and galloped there,
  And things a’n’t pleasant, anywhere.

  And sich a cursin’:  “Thunder!” “Hell!”
  And “Devil!” (worse nor I can tell:)
  His grannydiers in blood lay down,
  And yonder smokes a burnin’ town.

  And when, a-travellin’ to the Fairs,
  The merchant goes with all his wares,
  He takes a pouch o’ th’ best, I guess,
  And fills and smokes his pipe, no less.

  Poor devil, ’t isn’t good for you! 
  With all y’r gold, you’ve trouble, too. 
  Twice two is four, if stocks’ll rise: 
  I see the figgers in your eyes.

  It’s hurry, worry, tare and tret;
  Ye ha’n’t enough, the more ye get,—­
  And couldn’t use it, if ye had: 
  No wonder that y’r pipe tastes bad!

  But good, thank God! and wholesome’s mine: 
  The bottom-wheat is growin’ fine,
  And God, o’ mornin’s, sends the dew,
  And sends his breath o’ blessin’, too.

  And, home, there’s Nancy bustlin’ round: 
  The supper’s ready, I’ll be bound,
  And youngsters waitin’.  Lord!  I vow
  I dunno which is smartest, now.

  My pipe tastes good; the reason’s plain: 
  (I guess I’ll fill it once again:)
  With cheerful heart, and jolly mood,
  And goin’ home, all things is good.

Hebel’s narrative poems abound with the wayward pranks of a fancy which seems a little too restive to be entirely controlled by his artistic sense; but they possess much dramatic truth and power.  He delights in the supernatural element, but approaches it from the gentler human side.  In “The Carbuncle,” only, we find something of that weird, uncanny atmosphere which casts its glamour around the “Tam O’Shanter” of Burns.  A more satisfactory illustration of his peculiar qualities is “The Ghost’s Visit on the Feldberg,”—­a story told by a loafer of Basle to a group of beer-drinkers in the tavern at Todtnau, a little village at the foot of the mountain.  This is, perhaps, the most popular of Hebel’s poems, and we therefore translate it entire.  The superstition that a child born on Sunday has the power of seeing spirits is universal among the German peasantry.