peter krey’s web site

Trust Patiently, My Soul

Trust patiently, my soul, trust in the Lord.

Let him your burdens hold, loving help afford.

Don’t give up hope; the trumpet sounds the note.

Morning breaks and springtime follows the winter mind.

In all life’s trials and every need,

The faithful God protects you, God’s true, indeed!

Trust patiently, my soul, trust in the Lord.

Let him your burdens hold, loving help afford.

When all things fail; God will still avail.

Greater than the Helper, can be no emergency.

Eternal, faithful, Helper in need,

Rescue us and save us, dear God, we plead!

Translation of Harre, meine Seele by Peter Krey

(Dec. 16^th 2009)

Harre, meine Seele, harre des Herrn;

Alles ihm befehle, hilft er doch so gern.

Sei unversagt, bald der Morgen tagt,

und ein neuer Frühling folgt den Winter nach.

In allen Stürmen, in aller Not

Wird er dich beschirmen, der treue Gott.

Harre, meine Seele, harre des Herrn;

Alles ihm befehle, hilft er doch so gern.

Wenn alles bricht, Gott verlässt uns nicht;

Grösser als der Helfer ist die Not ja nicht.

Ewige Treue, Retter in Not, rett auch unsere Seele, du treuer Gott.

(Friedrich Räder 1848)

This translation is a work in progress. I’m still unhappy with some of the lines and suggestions would be appreciated. It is a powerful song of assurance and confidence. I wonder if the German word “Harre” comes from the Hindu word, “Hare” as in “Hare Krishna“?

My Mother Tongue

by Klaus Groth

My mother tongue, so sweet the sound,

How dear you are to me!

Were my heart made of stone or steel,

To speak it proud I’d be.

You bend my stiff neck so gently

Like Mother with her arm.

You caress my lips and face

And I’m completely calm.

Again I feel like a little child:

The whole world disappears.

You breathe health into my sick breast

Like the winds of yester-years.

My grandpa folds my hands again

And says to me: “Now pray!”

An “Our Father” I then begin

Like in my childhood’s day.

My heart speaks and everything pours out,

Feeling deeply understood,

As heaven’s peace descends round about

And things again are good.

My mother tongue so simple and fair

Has a reverent air!

If someone merely said “my father,”

It sounded like a prayer.

For me no music or chorus is quite as glorious

Not even the nightingale’s grace.

In the twinkling of an eye, I just sigh,

As tears stream down my face.

By Klaus Groth (1819-1899)

Born in Heide, Holstein, he became a professor of the German language and literature at Kiel and wrote in the dialect of Dithmarsch.

Translated into High German:

Meine Mutter Sprache, wie klingst du schön

Wie bist du mir vertraut.

Wenn auch mein Herz aus Stahl und Stein,

du treibst den Stolz heraus.

Du biegst mein steifes Genick so leicht,

wie Mutter mit ihrem Arm.

Du streichelst mich ums Angesicht

Und still ist alles Larm.

Ich fühl mich wie ein kleines Kind;

Die ganze Welt ist weg.

Du pust mich wie ein Vorjahrswind

Die kranke Brust zurecht.

Mein Opa faltet mir noch die Hände,

und sagt zu mir, „Nun bete!“

Und „Vater unser“ fang ich an,

wie ich wohl früher getan.

Und fühle so tief, das ich’s verstand

Und so spricht das Herz sich aus

Und Ruhe vom Himmel weht mich an

Und alles ist wieder gut.

Meine Mutter Sprache, so schlicht und recht

Du alt frommes Reden.

Wenn blos ein Mund „mein Vater“ sagt,

so klingst mir wie Beten.

So herrlich klingt mir keine Musik,

und singt keine Nachtigal.

Mir läuft jetzt gleich im Augenblick,

die hellen Tränen hernieder.

Nun in dithmarscher Mundart:

Min Modersprak.

1. Min Modersprak, wa klingst du schön!

Wa büst du mir vertrut!

Weer ok min Hart as Stahl und Steen,

Du drevst den Stolt herut.

2. Du bögst min stiwe Nack so licht,

As Moder mit ern Arm,

Du fichelst mi umt Angesicht,

Un still is alle Larm.

3. Ick föhl mi as en luttjet Kind,

De ganze Welt is weg.

Du pust mi as en Voerjahrswind

De kranke Boss torecht.

4. Min Obbe folt mi noch de Hann’

Und seggt to mi: Nu bee!

Un „Vader Unser“ sag ick an

As ick wohl früher dee.

5. Un föhl so deep: dat ward verstan,

So sprickt dat Hart sick ut,

Un Rau vunn Himmel weiht mi an

Un all’ns is wedder gut!

6. Min Modersprak, so slicht un recht

Du ole frame Red!

Wenn blot en Mund „mi Vader“ seggt,

So klingt mi’t as en Bed.

7. So herrli klingt mi keen Musik

Un singt keen Nachtigall;

Mi lopt je glik in Ogenblick

De hellen Tran hendal.[1]

---

[1] From Otto Hattstädt, Professor am Concordia Gymnasium, Milwaukee, Wisconsin, Handbuch der deutschen Nationalliteratur von ihrem ersten Anfängen bis zur Gegenwart, (St. Louis, MO: Concordia Publishing House, 1906), page 495.

Whenever my father felt criticized by my mother, he would do some humorous self-pity with the words “Ich bin ein geplagter Eheman!” I found this poem in low German and it dates before 1860; he was probably quoting it.

Peasant song for a plagued husband

From my ornery wife,

I get nothing but strife.

Just misery and plagues

all of my days.

When the day breaks

Hollering starts, for goodness sakes.

Potts and the pan from under the bed

She will throw right at my head.

Ah, neighbor, for my regret

Pour me a cup of kindness yet,

But give me a heads up

If you see my wife come in the pub.

Bauernlied auf einen geplagten Ehemann

Von enem boesem Wief

Da krig ik nix as Kief

Min Elend un min Plag

De heff ik alle Dag.

So bald de Dag brikt an,

So geiht dat Schellen an,

All Schoetteln un all Pott

Schmitt sei mi an den Kopp.

Ach, Nabersch, lent mi doch

Fuer enen Soessling noch.

Doch lat’t min Fro nit sehn,

Wenn se villicht inkeem!

No author given. Taken from Google books: H. Eschenhagen, Album: Plattdeutscher Gedichte, (Berlin: Verlach von E. Schott und Comp., 1860), page 10.

Alone

1. Each and every person has a place,

to go and sob in that quiet space:

where one does not have to say a word

and where one cannot be heard.

From the house – alone – to dart out

and go there to cry one’s heart out.

2. My place has a gathering of high beach trees

that stand like a kettle in the leas.

No one ever goes there to loom

and never there do flowers bloom.

Nothing is there but loneliness

and me with my heart’s distress.

3. After that when the sun goes down,

a third feeling starts coming round.

From the green beaches it descends like dew

and asks: “Can I be with you?”

With my heart-ache and loneliness

then mingles a sense of blissfulness.

Translated by pkrey 4/07/2009

Alleene

1. Jedweder Mensch hot seine Ohrte,

Wu a im stillen flennen kan;

Do macht ma weiter keene Wohrte

Und tutt’s irscht keenem andern san:

Ma gieht alleene aus em Haus

Und weent sich ganz alleene aus.

2. Ihch ha an’n Ohrt, wu hohche Buchen

Beisammen in a’m Kessel stiehn.

Kee Mensch kümmt durte nei gekruchen,

Ma sit ooch keene Bliemel bliehn;

’s ihs nischte durt, wie Einsamkeet

Und ihch mid meinem Härzeleed,

3. Und gieht dernoch de Sunne under,

Do stellt sich noch a drittes ein.

’s kümmt vun a grienen Buchen runder

Und frat: Tar ihch derbeine sein?

Mit Härzeleed und Einsamkeet

Vermengt sich de Glicksäligkeet.

From Otto Hattstädt, Professor am Concordia Gymnasium, Milwaukee, Wisconsin, Handbuch der deutschen Nationalliteratur von ihrem ersten Anfängen bis zur Gegenwart, (St. Louis, MO: Concordia Publishing House, 1906), page 495.

A Valentine for 2009

If this whole world were mine,
without qualms,
I’d give it up any time,
Just to have you,

My queen of charms,

Right here in my arms.

Be my Valentine?

More German Medieval Love Poems
From Middle High German (ca.1050-ca.1450)

1. Were this Whole World Mine

Were this whole world mine
From the great sea to the Rhine
I’d leave it without qualms,
if only the queen of England
were in my arms.

Could this have been for
Eleanor of Aquitaine or Poitiers?

For our Valentine purposes:

If this whole world were mine,
without qualms,
I’d give it up any time,
My queen of charms,
Just to have you in my arms.

Modern German:

Wär alle Welt mein,
vom Mär bis an den Rhein,
des wolt ich mich darben,
so nur die Königin von England
liegen würde in meinem Armen.

In Middle High German:

Wær diu werlt alliu mîn
Von dem mere unz an den Rîn,
dez wolt ih mih darben,
daz diu künegîn von Engellant
læge an mînen armen.

These following two poems are macaronic, that is, they are written in Latin and German (MHG) and I have stayed as close as I could to the originals. What do you think? My Latin could use improvement.

2. Stetit puella, rufa tunica

Stay awhile, Puella
in your red hair
and tunica bella:
Should I touch it,
Don’t make much-of it. Ah, yes!

Stay awhile, Puella,
for a fella!
Your face glows
and like a rose,
your mouth blossoms. Ah, yes!

Stay awhile, Puella,
under the umbrella
of this tree.
I’ll carve amorem
in this arborem.
Stay awhile, Puella, with me.

Then just when Venus came,
Puella’s heart took flame,
and courtly from above,
Gave her man
all her love.

In Modern German

Bleib ’ne Weilchen, Puella,
Rothaarig in tunica bella.
Wie kann ich fühlen
Ohne dein Kleid zu berühren? Eia.
Bleib ’ne Weilchen, Puella,
so schön in tunica bella.
Im Glanz deines Gesichts
blüht dein roter Mund
Wie eine Rose. Eia.
Bleib ’ne Weilchen, Puella,
so schön in tunica bella.
Ich schreibe amorem
An diesen arborem.
Plötzlich kam Venus an.
Erbarmung magnam.
Viel minnige Liebe,
bot sie ihr Man.

In Middle High German

Stetit puella
rufa tunica:
si qui seam tetigit,
tunica crepuit. Eia.
Stetit puella
tamquam rosula
facie splenduit,
et os ejus floruit. Eia.
Stetit puella
bî einem boume,
scripsit amorem
an eime loube.
Dar chom Vênus alsô fram;
caritatem magnam,
vil hôhe mine
bôt si ir manne.

(“fram” bedeutet “sogleich”)

3. May Forests Flourish

May forests flourish where’er you go;
No, my friends, I feel so much woe.
Again and again the forest gets green,
My love, however, I have not seen,
Since he’s ridden into it.
Woe is me, who will love me?

In Modern German:

Floret silva undiquê

Der Wald wächst um mich je,
Neh, meine Gesellen, mir ist weh.
Grünet der Wald allenthalben,
wo ist mein Geselle, all so lange?
Der ist geritten hinnen,
Oh weh, wer soll mich lieben?

In Middle High German

Floret silva undiquê
nâh mime gesellen ist mir wê.
gruonet der walt allenthalben,
wa ist mîn geselle alse lange?
der ist geriten hinnen:
owê, wer sol mich minnen?

4. The nightingale sang so well

The nightingale sang so well,
that thankfulness my heart did swell,
and for the other little birds.
Then longingly I thought
of my woman, the queen of my heart.

Modern German:

Die Nachtegal sang so wohl
Dass man ihr’s ewig danken soll
Und andern kleinen Vögellein.
Dann an meine Frau
gingen meine Gedanken hin,
Die ist meines Herzens Königin.

In Middle High German:

Diu nahtegal sanc sô wol
daz man irs iemer danken sol
und andern kleinen vogellîn.
dô dâhte ich an die frouwen mîn:
diu ist mîns herzen künigîn.

These poems are taken from the Heath Anthology of German Poetry, edited by August Closs and T. Pugh Williams, (Boston: D.C. Heath and Company, Undated, 1950?), pages 73-75.

The Worthless Account

By Fritz Reuter

(1810-1874)

Translated from the Low German dialect

“G’mornin, sir Advocate, your honor,

Something just happened to me -

out in the street; this mangy critter,

this shameless dog, came over

and bit me in the leg,

and ripped my pants to a shred.

Now this is a brand new pair

And I would like to ask you there,

Could I lodge a complaint

Against the guy, because people cain’t

allow dogs that bite

to run around wherever they might.”

“Most certainly, I say, my dear friend, you may.

The owner of that canine

That perpetrated such a crime

To have ripped your trousers into shreds

can be required to replace your threads.”

“Would I be allowed to charge three dollars?”

“Certainly, you could. That price

should just suffice. Three dollars

is not too much for trousers

That are so nice.”

“Well, sir advocate, your honor,” said Moeller Thiel

“Then fork over three dollars, my dear sir.

It was your mangy dog, your mangy cur!”

“My dog, little Pollo bit you in the calf?

Very well, I’ll take responsibility on his behalf.

Here are your three dollars

to buy yourself some new trousers.

What’s right is right so right increases

Or else this world will go to pieces.”

Moeller laughed a derisive little laugh,

Pleased with himself for his skillful gaff.

Pocketed the money and no longer peeved,

was just about to take his leave….

“Stop, dear friend,” said the advocate.

“Duty bound am I to inform you

That for my expertise and advice, too

Three dollars and sixteen cents are due.

So out with your three dollars

And add sixteen cents thereto

And now this case is rightly through.

What’s right is right, my friend, so right increases

Or else this world will go to pieces.”

De Rechnung ahn Wirt

Von Fritz Reuter

„Gu’n Morgen, Herr Avkat, mi is do wat passiert.

Mi het dor up de Strat so’n unverschämtes Dirt

Von Köter in de Beinen beten

Und mi en Stück ut mine Büxen reten.

5 Dat is ’ne ganze nige Hos,’

Und ick wull Sei dat bloss mal fragen,

Ob ick den Kirl nich künn verklagen,

der so’n bettchen Hund lett los’

Hier ob de Straten rümmen gahn?”

10 „Gewiss, mein lieber Freund, das können Sie!

Der Eigentümer von dem Vieh,

Dass Ihnen solches angetan

Und Ihre Hose riss in Fetzen,

Muss Ihnen selbige ersetzen.”

15 „Süll’t woll drei Daler föddern können?”

„Gewiss, dass können Sie! Für diese schönen

Und neuen Hosen ist das nicht zu viel.”

„Na, Herr Avkat,” sagt Möller Thiel,

„Denn geben S’man drei Taler her.

20 Wil’t Ehr oll Köter wesen ded.”

„Mein Hund? – mein Pollo biss Sie in die Waden?

Nun gut! Ich gaub’s und stehe für den Schaden:

Hier sind drei Taler für die Hosen.

Was recht ist, muss auch recht bestehn

25 Und sollt’ die Welt in Stücken gehn.”

De Möller lacht so recht gottlosen

Un denkt: De hesst du richtig nommen!

Strikt sick dat lütte Geld tausamen

Un will gehorsamst sick empfehlen.

30 „Halt, lieber Freund!” seggt de Avkat,

„Ich kann es Ihnen nicht verhehlen,

dass in beregter Sach’ für Müh’ und guten Rat

Drei Taler sechzehn Groschen mir gebühren.

Nun weder rut mit de drei Taler,

und söstein Gröschen bi geleggt!

Denn kommt de Sak erst richtig t’recht.

Recht, Fründing, möt as Recht bestahn,

un süll de Welt in Stücken gahn!”

From Otto Hattstädt, Professor am Concordia Gymnasium, Milwaukee, Wisconsin, Handbuch der deutschen Nationalliteratur von ihrem ersten Anfängen bis zur Gegenwart, (St. Louis, MO: Concordia Publishing House, 1906), page 493.

“Under the Linden in the Heather”

By Walther von der Vogelweide
(1170 – 1230 / Germany)

Under the linden in the heather

there was a bed for us together.

that you’ll find there when you pass,

and see beautifully broken

both flowers and grass,

There before the forest in the vale,

Derry down, day!

How lovely sang the nightingale!

I came a-walking to the meadow,

where my beloved had come before.

received was I as a lovely woman,

now I’m blessed forever more.

Did he kiss me? Like a thousand times!

Derry down, day!

Made my mouth look red as wine!

There for me he had made a lush bed

of flowers, all pressed down.

A hearty laugh, one may very well have,

Should he come along that path.

Among the roses, he’ll note and say,

Derry down, day!

“That’s where her head lay!”

That he lay with me,

should it come out ever,

- God forbid! – I’d be so ashamed!

And what he did to me, no, no never

Be it named, only he and I know

and that little bird,

Derry down, day!

Who’ll keep our secret, come what may!

Translated by Peter Krey from Middle High German,

Oct. 20^th 2008

under der linden an der heide,
dâ unser zweier bette was,
dâ mugt ir vinden
schône beide gebrochen bluomen unde gras.
vor dem walde in einem tal -
tandaradei!
schône sanc diu nahtegal.

ich kam gegangen zuo der ouwe,
dô was mîn friedel komen ê.
dâ wart ich enpfangen hêre frouwe,
daz ich bin sælic iemer mê.
kuster mich? Wol tûsentstunt!
tandaradei!
seht wie rôt mir ist der munt.

dô het er gemachet alsô rîche
von bluomen eine bettestat.
des wirt noch gelachet inneclîche,
kumt iemen an daz selbe pfat.
bî den rôsen er wol mac -
tandaradei!
merken, wâ mirz houbet lac.

daz er bî mir læge, wessez iemen,
- nu enwelle got – sô schamt ich mich.
wes er mit mir pflæge, niemer niemen
bevinde daz, wan er und ich,
und ein kleinez vogellîn -
tandaradei!
daz mac wol getriuwe sîn.

Also see: http://members.aol.com/rsrichmond/vogelweide.html

http://www.literature.at/elib/www/wiki/index.php/Maedchenlieder_(Walther_von_der_Vogelweide)

I’ve seen some very serious poems by Von der Vogelweide, but in this one he seems to be a troubadour involved in the tradition of medieval courtly love.

I had difficulty translated this one from the Middle High German, because I could not make it flow. I had to put it aside for a few weeks and now I think it works reasonably well. Date: June through July 3, 2008.

Come Holy Spirit, Fill my Heart

by Heinrich von Loufenberg (fifteenth century)

1/Come Holy Spirit, fill my heart,

Ignite in me your love.

Your sweetness make my pain depart,

Enlighten the mind of my soul above.

2/You alone give peace and oneness,

In you my heart and feelings rest.

By your divine and gracious goodness,

Put your peace within my breast.

3/Ah, of pure hearts, the light and shine,

Glow in this dark glen of mine.

Ah, true consolation, pour in alone

And let my soul become your home.

4/Ah, noble Spirit with seven gifts,

Come today and be my guest.

That you I live, to me, your joy give,

Come into me, relax and rest.

5/Come my rescue and my salvation

Through your holy name’s vocation,

Leave me, Spirit, never again,

Here nor there forever. Amen.

My Heath Anthology says, cf. the antiphony: Veni sancte spiritus

In German:

1/Komm heilger Geist, erfüll min Herz,

entzünd in mir din Minne.

Din Süssigkeit vertreib den Schmerz,

erleucht minr Seelen Sinne.

2/In dir allein ist Fried und Sunn,

in dir ruht das Gemüte,

in mir auch wollest Friede tun

durch din göttliche Güte.

3/Ach reiner Herzen lichter Schin,

glänz in minr finstren Kluse,

ach edler Trost, giess dich darin,

min Seel wird hüt din Huse.

4/Ach edler Geist mit sieben Gaben,

nun si noch heut min Gaste,

dass ich dir leb und dich mög laben,

nimm bi mir Ruh und Raste.

5/Komm, min Heil, min Seligkeit,

durch dinen heiligen Namen,

von mir dich nimmermehr gescheidt

hie und dort immer. Amen.

From the Heath Anthology of German Poetry, edited by August Closs and T. Pugh Williams, (Boston: D.C. Heath and Company, Undated, 1950?), page 99.

While exploring a Middle High German Dictionary, I came across an interesting nugget from lobges. 77? That seems like Lobgesang 77 and I can’t find this source. It seems to pun on the words rihten and wagen. The first word can mean to ride (reiten) and judge (richten). Then a shift of the sense of the word “wagen” takes place from “scales” for judgment to a “wagon” for carrying folks to the land of laughter:

Got, von dir sagen

kan rihten ûf der saelden wagen

der uns sol tragen

da man sol iemer lachen.

Lobges. 77.

God, of you it is said, You try us

in the blessed judgment-wagon

that we gently ride,

till it carries us to the land

where we are forever laughing.

Wilhelm Müller, Georg Frierich Benecke, and Friedrich Zarncke, Mittelhochdeutsches Wörterbuch in Google Books, page 644.

I wonder if the operetta „Land des Lächelns” came from the above source? It is so fresh to call heaven “the land of laughter”!

Today, August 18, 2008, I just looked it up and it comes from a Franz Lehar operetta that refers to the Chinese and the way they are always smiling. I doubt that this early German had anything to do with the Chinese or Lehar operetta.

I found that Luther has something in his “Fourteen Consolations” (1520), where he says “Christ is his most precious ‘wagon’” and he is referring to being carried by the righteousness of Christ. He has been talking about the brothers telling old Jacob that Joseph, his son was alive. Jacob could not believe it until he saw the wagons from Egypt. So if I can become rapturous,

Christ is the wagon God sent us

hereafter

to carry us

into the land of laughter.

I’ll work the poem above twice to capture its two meanings:

1

O God, of you it’s said,

you weigh us on the blessed balance,

with grace that’s really baffling,

because Christ welcomes us,

into the land where we’re forever laughing.

2

O God, of you it’s said,

you send us Christ,

the blessed wagon,

in whom we hide

and safely ride,

hereafter

into the Land of Laughter.

Helmut T. Lehman, ed., Martin O. Dietrich, ed. Martin H. Bertram, translator, Luther’s Works, Vol. 42, (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1969), page 164.