Soon after this, an hour at most,
  My spurs are growing stiff with frost
  When in comes Lisa, hums some snatches,
  And rakes the fire until it catches. 
  Then from below, quite savory too,
  I scent the steam of onion stew. 
  At length my master enters gay,
  Fresh for the business of the day. 
  On Saturday a worthy priest
  Should keep his room, his house at least;
  Not visit or distract his brain,
  Turning his thoughts to things profane. 
  My master was not tempted so,
  But once—­don’t let it out, you know—­
  He squandered all his precious wits
  Making a titmouse trap for Fritz—­
  Right here, and talked and had a smoke;
  To me, I’ll own, it seemed a joke.

  The blessed Sabbath now is here. 
  The church-bells call both far and near,
  The organ sounds so loud to me
  I think I’m in the sacristy. 
  There’s not a soul in all the house;
  I hear a fly, and then a mouse. 
  The sunlight now the window reaches
  And through the cactus stems it stretches,
  Fain o’er the walnut desk to glide,
  Some ancient cabinet-maker’s pride. 
  There it beholds with searching looks
  Concordances and children’s books,
  On wafer-box and seal it dances
  And lights the inkwell with its glances;
  Across the sand it strikes its wedge,
  Is cut upon the penknife’s edge,
  Across the armchair freely roams,
  Then to the bookcase with its tomes. 
  There clad in parchment and in leather
  The Suabian Fathers stand together: 
  Andrea, Bengel, Riegers two,
  And Oetinger are well in view. 
  The sun each golden name reads o’er
  And with a kiss he gilds yet more. 
  As Hiller’s “Harp” his fingers touch—­
  Hark! does it ring?  It lacks not much.

  With that a spider slim and small
  Begins upon my frame to crawl,
  And, never asking my goodwill,
  Suspends his web from neck to bill. 
  I don’t disturb myself a whit,
  Just wait and watch him for a bit. 
  For him it is a lucky hap
  That I’m disposed to take a nap.—­
  But tell me now if anywhere
  An old church cock might better fare.

  A twinge of longing now and then
  Will vex, no doubt, the happiest men. 
  In summer I could wish outside
  Upon the dove-cote roof to bide,
  With just beneath the garden bright
  And stretch of greensward too in sight. 
  Or else again in winter time,
  When, as today, the weather’s prime:—­
  Now I’ve begun, I’ll say it out
  We’ve got a sleigh here, staunch and stout,
  All colored, yellow, black and green;
  Just freshly painted, neat and clean;
  And on the dashboard proudly strutting
  A strange, new-fangled fowl is sitting: 
  Now if they’d have me fixed up right—­
  The whole expense would be but slight—­
  I’d stand there quite as well as he
  And none need feel ashamed of me!