Wagner

To stroll with you, Sir Doctor, flatters; ’Tis honor, profit, unto me. But I, alone, would shun these shallow matters, Since all that’s coarse provokes my enmity. This fiddling, shouting, ten-pin rolling I hate,—these noises of the throng: They rave, as Satan were their sports controlling. And call it mirth, and call it song!

PEASANTS, UNDER THE LINDEN-TREE (Dance and Song.)

All for the dance the shepherd dressed, In ribbons, wreath, and gayest vest Himself with care arraying: Around the linden lass and lad Already footed it like mad: Hurrah! hurrah! Hurrah—tarara-la! The fiddle-bow was playing.

He broke the ranks, no whit afraid, And with his elbow punched a maid, Who stood, the dance surveying: The buxom wench, she turned and said: “Now, you I call a stupid-head!” Hurrah! hurrah! Hurrah—tarara-la! “Be decent while you’re staying!”

Then round the circle went their flight, They danced to left, they danced to right: Their kirtles all were playing. They first grew red, and then grew warm, And rested, panting, arm in arm,— Hurrah! hurrah! Hurrah—tarara-la! And hips and elbows straying.

Now, don’t be so familiar here! How many a one has fooled his dear, Waylaying and betraying!

And yet, he coaxed her soon aside, And round the linden sounded wide. Hurrah! hurrah! Hurrah—tarara-la! And the fiddle-bow was playing.