Hans Winkelmann

Hans Vinkelmann was yust thot way, He always dit wot he was tolt; By witch thot night he met his dett, Und it was awful colt.

You see, December it was then, Way off by Warsaw mit the Poles, All kinds of plizzards plew, und we Kept warm by digging holes.

So Hans was digging, like so me, Venn oop the kepting comes, mit shout, “Hans Vinkelmann!” und Hans says, “Here!” “Veil then, thot trench get out;

Und come by me, we need a man Off yonder by thot picket line; You must not leef mitout my wort,— Relief will be at nine.”

Vell venn a sentry vent the rount, Perhaps by eight o’clock, or so, He met poor Hans half dett mit colt, Und standing in the snow;

Und Hans, he said, “My comrade Yake, I feel mit shivers, colt as ice, I wish you giff the kepting this For Yennie if I dies.”

So Yake comes pack und tells it all— Up yoomped the kepting, und he swore, “Py Tamm! if he is scairt of colt, Vot vill he do in vore?”

Yust then a thousand Rooshians yelt, Like hell-fire tyefulls, or wot not; Und wile we fought to safe our lifes, Poor Hans was all forgot.

The other sentries hurried in, Und choined us mit the Rooshian fight; I tell you wot, we licked ’em goot, Und kept it oop all night.

Veil howso thot, venn morning comes, We looks arount und counts our men; The kepting calls our names, und calls, “Hans Vinkelmann!” again.

No answer comes, und ware is Hans? He is not on the ploody grount; Und any ware we looks for him, No sign of him is fount.

But Yakey was a cunning Yew, Und said, “Py Yim, I bet I know, Hans Vinkelmann is keeping guart, Und standing in the snow!”

Vee didn’t vait for leef at all— The morning light was werry dim, But pretty soon we fount poor Hans, Or wot was left of him.

We fount two dett wolfs on the snow, A gun, some pones, a uniform; Goot Gott! this Rooshian vore is colt,— Perhaps, yet, Hans is warm.