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A Pilgrim bin i halt numehr, Muss reise fremde Strossa; Das bitt i di, mein Gott und Herr, Du wirst mi nit verlossa. 4. Den Glauba hob i frei bekennt, Des derf i mi nit schaema, Wenn ma mi glei ein Ketzer nennt Und tuet mir's Leba nehma. 5. Ketta und Banda wor mir en Ehr Um Jesu willa z' dulda, Und dieses macht die Glaubenslehr Und nit mei boes Verschulda. 6.
Passages like the following show the young Schiller at his best as a poet: Liebe wird Dein Auge nie vergolden, Nie umhalsen Deine Braut wirst Du, Nie, wenn unsere Thraenen stromweis rollten, Ewig, ewig, ewig sinkt Dein Auge zu.
June 25. more trouble today. it seems as if there wasent any use in living. nothing but trouble all the time. mother said i coodent sleep in that room until the rat was taken out. well father he came into my room and sniffed once and said, whew, what a almity smell. then he held his nose and went out and came back with mister Staples the father of the feller that called me Polelegs. well he came in and put his nose up to the wall and sniffed round until he came to where my old close hung. then he said, thunder George, this is the place, rite behind this jacket, it is the wirst smell i ever smelt. then he threw my close in a corner and took out his tools and began to dig a hole in the wall, while father and mother and aunt Sarah stood looking at him and holding their nose. after he dug the hole he reached in but dident find ennything, then he stuck in his nose and said, it dont smell enny in there. then they all let go of their nose and took a sniff and said murder it is wirse than ever it must be rite in the room somewhere. then father said to me, look in those close and see if there is ennything there. so i looked and found in the poket of my old jaket that big roach that i lost, when i went fishing with Potter Gorham. it was all squashy and smelt auful. father was mad and made me throw the jaket out of the window and wont let me go fishing for a week. ennyway i know now what became of my roach.
June 16, 186- Brite and fair. my arm is all rite. June 17. Rany and thunderry. my arm begins to ich a little only i cant scrach it. June 18. still rany. all our arms begin to ich. Annies arm is the wirst. we dident go to church today. That is one good thing. I never knew it to rane before on sunday.
It deserves neither quarter nor sympathy; but as we can never reconcile it let our rule of conduct be to scorn it with a good heart, and as our happiness and glory is torture to it we may rejoice in its sufferings: Den Neid wirst nimmer du versöhnen; So magst du ihn getrost verhöhnen. Dein Glück, dein Ruhm ist ihm ein Leiden: Magst drum an seiner Quaal dich weiden.
Stealing along in the fog, I looked back uneasily once or twice, so vivid was this disquieting memory, and could hardly be reassured by putting up my hand to the elaborate twists and curls that compose what my maid calls my Frisur, and that mark the gulf lying between the present and the past; for it had happened once or twice, awful to relate and to remember, that Fraulein Wundermacher, sooner than let me slip through her fingers, had actually caught me by the long plait of hair to whose other end I was attached and whose English name I had been told was pigtail, just at the instant when I was springing away from her into the bushes; and so had led me home triumphant, holding on tight to the rope of hair, and muttering with a broad smile of special satisfaction, "Diesmal wirst du mir aber nicht entschlupfen!"
Was Du verlachst wirst Du noch dienen. Brood of mockers: Photius, pseudomalachi, Johann Most.
Nipper Brown is the best scolar in my class. i am the wirst. i can lick Nipper easy. Jan. 11. brite and fair. After school me and Beany and Pewt and Fatty Melcher and Pozzy Chadwick and lots of fellers went skating on fresh river. i was skating backwerd and i got one leg in a eal hole, gosh the water was cold and before i got home my britches leg was all froze.
Je lieber möcht ich im Himmel sein!" The soul strives to reach God with the passionate cry: "Ich bin von Gott und will wieder zu Gott." There is an apocalyptic finale where the choir sing Klopstock's beautiful ode on the promise of the Resurrection: "Aufersteh'n, ja, aufersteh'n wirst du, mein Staub, nach kurzer Ruh!"
It hardly does to consider the moral aspect of the play at this juncture. Vanderdecken is merely a greedy, selfish skipper who, having got into some trouble, is anxious that a pure young maiden should throw away her life that he may be comfortable. Not any casuistry or splitting of hairs can alter the plain fact "Wirst du des Vaters Wahl nicht schelten? Was er versprach, wie? dürft' es gelten?"
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