Deutschland. Ein Wintermärchen

This is the forest of Teuteburg,
Of which Tacitus has written;
This is the classical morass,
Where Varus’ legions were beaten.

Here, they fought the Cheruscan prince,
This nobleman, Hermann by name;
In this mud and mire the Germans won,
Here was built the German fame.

Had Hermann not won the battle,
At the head of his blonde hordes,
The German Liberty would be dead,
And we’d bow to Roman lords.

In our country we’d speak roman,
We’d even wear a roman tunic,
The Swabians would be called Quirites,
And we’d find vestals in Münich!

Hengstenberg would be a haruspex,
Who would sift through oxen entrails,
Neander, as an augur, would ponder
Over what a flight of birds entails.

Birch-Pfeifer would guzzle turpentine,
Like Roman ladies of old.
(This would make their urine
Smell aromatic, we’re told.)

Raumer would be no German rogue,
He’d be a Roman Rogasius,
Freiligrath would compose without rhymes,
In the manner of Flaccus Horatius.

The vulgar beggar, father Jahn,
Would now be called Vulgarius.
Me Hercule! Masmann would speak Latin,
As Marcus Tullius Massmanus!

Lovers of truth would now fight
With lions, jackals and hyenas,
Instead of having to face dogs
In small-time press arenas.

Instead of three dozens princes,
We’d have a single Nero now.
We’d split open our veins,
Defiantly refusing to bow.

Shelling would be a Seneca
And would die in this conflict.
To our Cornelius we would say:
“Painting is not like shit.”

Thank God! Hermann won the battle,
The Romans were driven away,
Varius and his legions was lost,
And we are still German today!

We’re German still, and German we speak,
And everything remained the same:
An ass is an ass, not an asinus,
And the Swabians have kept their name.

Rauner got a medal, but remained
A German rogue all the time;
Freiligrath isn’t a Horace:
His poetry is full of rhyme.

Thank God! Massmann speaks no Latin,
Birch-Pfeiffer writes only drama-plays
And doesn’t guzzle turpentine,
Like the ladies of Roman days.

O Herman, we thank you for all this!
So, at Detmold, as is only fair,
They’re erecting you a monument;
I have even put in my share.

Germany. A Winter’s Tale

Caput XI