From the German of Buerger.
Ich will euch erzaehlen ein Maerchen gar schnurrig; u.s.w.
PRAY, listen, good friends, and I’ll tell you a story,
Of a King who made hunting and war all his glory,
And a fat portly Abbot of lordly degree;
Shame on him! his shepherd was wiser than he!
The King – a bold warrior on victory bent –
With his mail-coat around him oft slept in his tent;
The rigours of heat and of cold doom’d to feel,
The coarsest black bread was his daintiest meal.
The Priest was much wiser – his joy and delight
A good dinner by day and a soft couch by night;
His ruddy fat face was as round as the moon,
And his paunch like a hogshead or full-blown balloon.
The King took offence at the Priest’s easy life,
And once paid him a visit – a visit of strife –
For one hot summer’s day he rode up to the Abbey,
While the Priest lay outstretch’d after lunch in the lobby.
“Ha, ha!” said the King, as he sounded his horn,
Saluting the Priest in the language of scorn;
“Good morn, Father Abbot, whatever men tell,
You thrive on your prayers and your fasts pretty well.
“But methinks, Father Abbot, a little employment
Would very much heighten your sense of enjoyment;
And besides, you’re so wonderful wise, people say,
You can hear the grass grow in the cool of the day.
“Well, then, Father Abbot, I’ll give you, for lack
Of better employment, three hard nuts to crack;
And I’ll give you three months to the task from this day;
So you’ll bring me the kernels, friend; mind what I say:
“First, then, when I sit on some high council-day,
With my sccptre and crown in my royal array,
How much I am worth you must tell to a tittle –
Not a farthing too much, nor a farthing too little.
“You must tell me, besides, how long I should take
To ride round the world – o’er hill, moss, moor, and brake –
Not a minute within, nor a minute without;
‘Tis so easy, methinks, ’twill scarce cost you a thought.
“And as for the third and the last, though not least,
You must tell me my thoughts, most intelligent Priest;
You must tell what I think at the moment and show
That the thing is as false as that honey is snow.
“And provided you cannot the right answers show, sir,
Farewell to your abbey, your cap, and your crozier;
For I’ll make you parade on an ass through the land,
With your face to its tail, and its tail in your hand.”
The King spurr’d his horse and rode laughing away,
But left the poor Abbot to fear and dismay;
For no criminal sentenced to death ere could be
So non-pluss’d, so lost, and so wretched as he.
To every great doctor renown’d for his knowledge;
To every professor in every known college,
He sent his three questions with presents in store;
But the thing far outwent all their science and lore.
Meanwhile, notwithstanding his fear and dismay,
And his brain-splitting efforts, the weeks flee away,
And he quakes as he reckons the hours till his trial,
And thinks how his stern lord can brook no denial.
Now it chanced as he walk’d with his face pale and wan,
Among forests and rocks unfrequented by man,
That there happen’d to meet him – no half-learned pretender,
But his own trusty shepherd, good honest Hans Bendir.
“Lord Abbot,” said Hans “you are wasting away,
Like a shadow, with grief or disease day by day!
You are dying by inches, as I am a sinner!
Pray tell me, Lord Abbot, what is ‘t ails your honour?”
“Alas, honest Bendir, thou good-hearted fellow,
‘Tis no light matter makes me so thin and so yellow:
For the King has cramm’d three hard nuts into my maw,
That would break every tooth in the devil’s own jaw.
“First, then, when he sits on some high council-day
With his sceptre and crown in his royal array,
How much he is worth I must tell to a tittle;
Not a farthing too much, nor a farthing too little.
“I must tell him besides, how long he should take,
To ride round the world – o’er hill, moss, moor, and brake –
Not a minute within, nor a minute without,
‘Tis so easy, he thinks, ’twill scarce cost me a thought.
“And then for the third and the last, though not least,
I must tell him his thoughts, as I’m a poor Priest;
I must tell what he thinks at the moment and show
That the thing is as false as that honey is snow.”
“Is that all?” said Hans, and laugh’d as he spoke;
“Only lend me your cap, your crozier, and cloak,
And I’ll answer his questions as well as a rabbi.
Lord Abbot! cheer up! you shall not lose the Abbey.
“For though I know nought of your jargon of Latin,
I have learning to keep the dogs off from the mutton.
Mother-wit, I confess, is the whole of my knowledge;
But ’tis better, perhaps, than what folks learn at college.”
Then up sprung the Priest as merry’s a rabbit,
And array’d honest Hans in the robes of an Abbot,
With his gown and his hood, and his crozier and collar,
And sent him to court to play off the great scholar.
Then out spoke the King in his royal array,
With his sceptre and crown (for ’twas high council-day):
“How much am I worth now? Come, tell to a tittle;
Not a farthing too much, nor a farthing too little.”
“For thirty crowns neat the Redeemer was sold,”
Said Hans, “and methinks with your jewels and gold
He was worth a crown more than you yet; I divine
Your value at most then is just twenty-nine.”
“Hem! hem!” said the Prince, “you have just hit the thing;
And ’tis humbling enough for the pride of a King.
You are right, ‘pon my honour! right, right to a tittle,
Though I never before thought myself worth so little.
“Well then, Father Abbot, how long shall I take
To ride round the world – o’er hill, moss, moor, and brake –
Not a minute within, nor a minute without?
‘Tis so easy, methinks, ’twill scarce cost you a thought.”
“If you start with the sun, at the first gleam of light,
And gallop as fast for a whole day and night,”
Said Hans, “should your good steed retain all his powers,
You will ride round the world in twenty-four hours.”
“Most exquisite conjurer!” answered the King;
“Your if, aye! your if has managed the thing.
The fellow that found out these ifs, I am told,
Could turn a whole cart-load of straw into gold.
“Well, now for the third and the last, but not least,
Come tell me my thoughts, most intelligent Priest,
And prove that they’re false, or I’ll set thee astride
On an ass in ignoble procession to ride.”
“Your Majesty thinks I’m Lord Abbot St. Gall,”
Said Hans; “but in truth I’m no abbot at all.
I am only his poor honest shepherd, Hans Bendir,
At your Majesty’s service, my master’s defender.”
“What! hangman! are you not the Abbot St. Gall?”
Cried the King in amaze, as if shot with a ball.
“If you are not the Abbot, at least you shall be,
For this moment I’ll give the fair lordship to thee.
“I’ll invest thee with ring and with staff, and command,
That the old Abbot trudge on his ass through the land,
And learn as he trudges o’er high ground and low,
That in order to reap one must first learn to sow.”
“With your favour,” said Hans, “I had rather remain,
Instead of Lord Abbot a poor simple swain;
For not one dead word of their Latin I know:
My youth was untaught, and my manhood is slow.”
“Well! honest Hans Bendir, more pity less pelf;
But still thou mayst ask something else for thyself.
Thy wit shall not lack its befitting reward,
For, Hans, thou hast wisdom and wit for a lord.”
“Since your Majesty pleases,” said Bendir, “to mention
The trifle I’ve done as deserving attention,
I humbly request, as my only reward,
You will freely forgive my good master and lord.”
“Bravo!” said the King; “thou’rt a fellow of grace;
Thy heart, like thy head’s in the properest place.
We grant thy request, and to better thy station,
We give thee, besides, this our recommendation:
“The Abbot St. Gall is required to excuse
Hans Bendir, in future, from tending his ewes,
To watch for his welfare that nothing may grieve him,
And maintain him in comfort till death shall relieve him.”
(John Dunmore Lang)
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Based on Topics: Man Poems, Life Poems, World Poems, Night Poems, Light Poems, Mind Poems, Death & Dying Poems, Faces Poems, Youth Poems, Fairness Poems, Friendship PoemsBased on Keywords: twenty-nine, rigours, kernels, coarsest, spurr, conjurer, euch, ifs, outwent, crozier, hogshead