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The landlord's daughter filled their cups
Around the rustic board;

Then sat they all so calm and still,
And spake not one rude word.

“But, when the maid departed,
A Swabian raised his hand,

And cried, all hot and flushed with wine,
“Long live the Swabian land 1

“The greatest kingdom upon earth
Cannot with that compare ;
With all the stout and hardy men,
And the nut-brown maidens there.”

“Hal” cried a Saxon, laughing—
And dashed his beard with wine—

“I had rather live in Lapland,
Than that Swabian land of thine !

“The goodliest land on all this earth,
It is the Saxon land!
There have I as many maidens
As fingers on this hand!”

“Hold your tongues! both Swabian and Saxon!"
A bold Bohemian cries;

“If there's a heaven upon this earth,
In Bohemia it lies.

“There the tailor blows the flute,
And the cobbler blows the horn,
And the miner blows the bugle,
Over mountain-gorge and bourn.”

And then the landlord's daughter
Up to heaven raised her hand,
And said, “Ye may no more contend—
There lies the happiest land!”

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“THE rivers rush into the sea,
By castle and town they go;
The winds behind them merrily
Their noisy trumpets blow.

“The clouds are passing far and high,
We little birds in them play;
And everything that can sing and fly
Goes with us, and far away.

“I greet thee, bonny boat! Whither, or whence,
With thy fluttering golden band?”—

“I greet thee, little bird To the wide sea
I haste from the narrow land.

“Full and swollen is every sail;
I see no longer a hill,
I have trusted all to the sounding gale,
And it will not let me stand still.

“And wilt thou, little bird, go with us?
Thou mayst stand on the mainmast tall,
For full to sinking is my house
With merry companions all.”

“I need not, and seek not company,
Bonny boat, I can sing all alone;
For the mainmast tall too heavy am I,
Bonny boat, I have wings of my own.

“High over the sails, high over the mast,
Who shall gainsay these joys? -
When the merry companions are still, at last,
Thou shalt hear the sound of my voice.

“Who neither may rest, nor listen may,
God bless them every one !
I dart away, in the bright blue day,
And the golden fields of the sun.

“Thus do I sing my weary song
Wherever the four winds blow;

And this same song, my whole life-long,
Neither poet nor printer may know.”

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Is this the way I was going?
Whither, O brooklet, say!

Thou hast, with thy soft murmur,
Murmured my senses away.

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