It happened in the good old times,
While yet the Master-singers filled
The noisy workshop and the guild
With various melodies and rhymes,
That here in Hagenau there dwelt
A cobbler,—­one who loved debate,
And, arguing from a postulate,
Would say what others only felt;
A man of forecast and of thrift,
And of a shrewd and careful mind
In this world’s business, but inclined
Somewhat to let the next world drift.

Hans Sachs with vast delight he read,
And Regenbogen’s rhymes of love,
For their poetic fame had spread
Even to the town of Hagenau;
And some Quick Melody of the Plough,
Or Double Harmony of the Dove,
Was always running in his head. 
He kept, moreover, at his side,
Among his leathers and his tools,
Reynard the Fox, the Ship of Fools,
Or Eulenspiegel, open wide;
With these he was much edified: 
He thought them wiser than the Schools.

His good wife, full of godly fear,
Liked not these worldly themes to hear;
The Psalter was her book of songs;
The only music to her ear
Was that which to the Church belongs,
When the loud choir on Sunday chanted,
And the two angels carved in wood,
That by the windy organ stood,
Blew on their trumpets loud and clear,
And all the echoes, far and near,
Gibbered as if the church were haunted. 
Outside his door, one afternoon,
This humble votary of the muse
Sat in the narrow strip of shade
By a projecting cornice made,
Mending the Burgomaster’s shoes,
And singing a familiar tune:—­

 “Our ingress into the world
   Was naked and bare;
 Our progress through the world
   Is trouble and care;
 Our egress from the world
   Will be nobody knows where;
 But if we do well here
   We shall do well there;
 And I could tell you no more,
   Should I preach a whole year!”

Thus sang the cobbler at his work;
And with his gestures marked the time
Closing together with a jerk
Of his waxed thread the stitch and rhyme. 
Meanwhile his quiet little dame
Was leaning o’er the window-sill,
Eager, excited, but mouse-still,
Gazing impatiently to see
What the great throng of folk might be
That onward in procession came,
Along the unfrequented street,
With horns that blew, and drums that beat,
And banners flying, and the flame
Of tapers, and, at times, the sweet
Voices of nuns; and as they sang
Suddenly all the church-bells rang.

In a gay coach, above the crowd,
There sat a monk in ample hood,
Who with his right hand held aloft
A red and ponderous cross of wood,
To which at times he meekly bowed. 
In front three horsemen rode, and oft,
With voice and air importunate,
A boisterous herald cried aloud: 
“The grace of God is at your gate!”
So onward to the church they passed.

The cobbler slowly tuned his last,
And, wagging his sagacious head,
Unto his kneeling housewife said: 
“’Tis the monk Tetzel.  I have heard
The cawings of that reverend bird. 
Don’t let him cheat you of your gold;
Indulgence is not bought and sold.”