| |
Translated by J. Macray
WITH laurel wreathe the glass’s vintage mellow, | |
| And drink it gayly dry! | |
| Through farthest Europe, know, my worthy fellow, | |
| For such in vain ye ’ll try. | |
| |
| Nor Hungary nor Poland e’er could boast it; | 5 |
| And as for Gallia’s vine, | |
| Saint Veil, the Ritter, if he choose, may toast it,— | |
| We Germans love the Rhine. | |
| |
| Our fatherland we thank for such a blessing, | |
| And many more beside; | 10 |
| And many more, though little show possessing, | |
| Well worth our love and pride. | |
| |
| Not everywhere the vine bedecks our border, | |
| As well the mountains show, | |
| That harbor in their bosoms foul disorder; | 15 |
| Not worth their room below. | |
| |
| Thuringia’s hills, for instance, are aspiring | |
| To rear a juice like wine; | |
| But that is all; nor mirth nor song inspiring, | |
| It breathes not of the vine. | 20 |
| |
| And other hills, with buried treasures glowing, | |
| For wine are far too cold; | |
| Though iron ores and cobalt there are growing, | |
| And chance some paltry gold. | |
| |
| The Rhine, the Rhine,—there grow the gay plantations! | 25 |
| O, hallowed be the Rhine! | |
| Upon his banks are brewed the rich potations | |
| Of this consoling wine. | |
| |
| Drink to the Rhine! and every coming morrow | |
| Be mirth and music thine! | 30 |
| And when we meet a child of care and sorrow, | |
| We ’ll send him to the Rhine. | |
| |
