Die Asche meiner Mutter - Irische Erinnerungen

gladness, gone, alas, like our youth too soon.
     
     
    Ref 21
    Proddy Woddy ring the bell
Not for heaven but for hell.

     
     
    Ref 22
    Oh, oh, stop your ticklin’, Jock,
Stop your ticklin’, Jock.
Stop your ticklin’,
Ickle ickle icklin
Stop your ticklin’, Jock.
     
     
    Ref 23
    ’Tis alone my concern if the grandest surprise
Would be shining at me out of somebody’s eyes.
’Tis my private affair what my feelings would be
While the Green Glens of Antrim were welcoming me.
     
     
    Ref 24 , Ref 25
    Cardinal Wolsey: Be patient yet.
    Queen Katharine:
    I will, when you are humble; nay, before,
    Or God will punish me. I do believe,
    Induc’d by potent circumstances, that
    You are mine enemy; and make my challenge
    You shall not be my judge; for it is you
    Have blown this coal betwixt my lord and me.
    Which God’s dew quench! Therefore I say again,
    I utterly abhor, yea, from my soul
    Refuse you for my judge, whom, yet once more,
    I hold my most malicious foe, and think not
    At all a friend to truth.
    William Shakespeare, The Famous History of the Life of
    King Henry the Eighth, Act II, Scene IV

     
     
    Ref 26 ., Ref 27
    The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
    The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
    The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
    And the highwayman came riding – Riding – riding –
    The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
    He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
    A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin,
    They fitted with never a wrinkle, his boots were up to the thigh,
    And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, His pistol butts a-twinkle,
    His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
     
    Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
    Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
    Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath,
    Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight’
    Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him – with her death.
    Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
    When they shot him down on the highway,
    Down like a dog on the highway,
    And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.
     
    Alfred Noyes (1880–1938), The Highwayman
     
     
    Ref 28
    Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
     
     
    Ref 29
    They went forth to battle, but they always fell,
Their eyes were fixed above the sullen shields.
Nobly they fought and bravely, but not well,’
And sank heart-wounded by a subtle spell.
     
     
    Ref 30
    Yip aye aidy aye ay aye oh
Yip aye aidy aye ay,
We don’t care about England or France,
All we want ist the German advance.
     
     
    Ref 31
    The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat.
    They took some honey, and plenty of money, Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
    The Owl looked up to the Stars abovE And sang to a small guitar,
    Oh lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are.

    Pussy said to the Owl, You elegant fowl! How charmingly sweet you sing!
    O let us be married! too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?
    They sailed away for a year and a day, To the land where the Bong-tree grows,
    And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood With a ring at the end of his nose.
     
    Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring? Said the Piggy I will.
    They dined on mince and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
    And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon.
    Edward Lear The Owl and the Pussy-Cat, 1871
     
     
    Ref 32
    Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,
With blossomed furze unprofitably gay,
There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule The village
master taught his little school.
A man severe he was and stern to view,
I knew him well, and every truant knew.
Full well the boding tremblers learned to trace
The day’s disaster in his morning face.
Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee
At all his jokes for many a joke had he.
Full well the busy whisper circling round
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned.
Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught,
The love he bore for learning was in fault.

The village all declared how much he knew.
’Twas certain he could write, and cipher too.
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,
And even the story ran that he could