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MY OWN NATIVE LAND. |
27 |
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"Hurry up your gakes!" der lady sard,
" Dough dempests round us gader; I doesn't vant a proken head,
Un so von't inoet mine vader." Der poat vos launched ubon der creek,
Der lovers vent on poard it; Der vaters rushed in trough each leak,
Un loud der shtorm roared it.
Whack row de dow, etc.
Un ven ha'lf vay across dey got,
Trough mud un vater shteering, Olt Schneider reached der vatal shpot,
His wrath vos changed to shvearrag. For in der poat, in her pest clothes,
His shild he did dishgover; Yon lovely hand shtretched vrom her nose,
Un von vos rount her lover.
Whack row de dow, etc
"Gome pack, gome pack I" alout he cried,
" Vorgive your volly I vill." "Nienl nary pack !" Yon Schunk replied,
" You may go to der tuyfel!" Der lovers vent. He turned around,
Mit curses loud un blenty, Yent to his home, and dere he vound
His money-trawer vos empty.
Whack row de dow, etc |
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UY OWN NATIVE LAND.
Tve roved over mountain, I've crossed over flood;
I've traversed the wave-rolling sand: Though the fields were as green, and the moon shone At bright, Yet it was not my own native land.
No, no, no, no, no—no, no, no, no, no I |
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