THE OLD WEATHERCOCK:  AN IDYLL[29] (1840, 1852)

  At Cleversulzbach in the Underland
  A hundred and thirteen years did I stand
  Up on the tower in wind and rain,
  An ornament and a weathervane. 
  Through night and tempest gazing down,
  Like a good old cock I watched the town. 
  The lightning oft my form has grazed,
  The frost my scarlet comb o’erglazed,
  And many a warm long summer’s day,
  In times when all seek shade who may,
  The scorching sun with rage unslaked
  My golden body well has baked. 
  So in my age all black I’d grown,
  My beauteous glint and gleam was gone,
  Till I at length, despised by all,
  Was lifted from my pedestal. 
  Ah well! ’tis thus we run our race,
  Another now must have my place. 
  Go strut, and preen, but don’t forget
  What court the wind will pay you yet!

  Farewell, sweet landscape, mount and dell! 
  Vineyard and forest, fare ye well! 
  Beloved tower, the roof’s high ridge,
  Churchyard and streamlet with its bridge;
  Oh fountain, where the cattle throng
  And sheep come trooping all day long,
  With Hans to urge them on their way. 
  And Eva on the piebald gray! 
  Ye storks and swallows with your clatter,
  And sparrows, how I’ll miss your chatter! 
  For every bit of dirt seems dear
  Which o’er my form you used to smear. 
  Goodby, my worthy friend the pastor,
  And you, poor driveling old schoolmaster. 
  ’Tis o’er, what cheered my heart so long. 
  The sound of organ, bells and song.

  So from my, lofty perch I crew,
  And would have sung much longer too,
  When came a crooked devil’s minion,
  The slater ’twas in my opinion. 
  Who after many a knock and shake
  Detached me wholly from my stake. 
  My poor old heart was broke at last
  When from the roof he pulled me past
  The bells which from their station glared
  And on my fate in wonder stared,
  But vexed themselves no more about me,
  Thinking they’d hang as well without me.

  Then to the scrap-heap I was brought,
  For twopence by the blacksmith bought,
  Which as he paid he said ’twas wonder
  How much folk wanted for such plunder. 
  And there at noon of that same day
  In grief before his hut I lay. 
  The time being May, a little tree
  Shed snow-white blossoms over me,
  While other chickens by the dozen
  Unheeding cackled round their cousin. 
  ’Twas then the pastor happened by,
  Spoke to the smith, then smiling, “Hi! 
  And have you come to this, poor cock
  A strange bird, Andrew, for your flock! 
  He’ll hardly do to broil or roast;
  For me though, I may fairly boast
  Things must go hard if I’ve no place
  For old church servants in hard case. 
  Bring him along then speedily
  And drink a glass of wine with me.”