“Who rubs against the kittles, may spotless keep who can— How fares it now, young hero, against the _old gray man_? Now quickly speak and shrive thee, for I thy priest will be; Say, art thou a young Wolfing? perhaps I‘ll let thee free.” “Like wolves are all the Wolfing, they ran wild in the wood, But I‘m a Grecian warrior, a rider brave and good; Frau Ute is my mother, she dwelleth near this spot, And _Hildebrand_, my father, albeit he knows us not!” “Is Ute then thy mother, that monarch‘s daughter free? Seekest thou thy father, Hildebrand? then know that _I_ am he!” Uplifted he his golden helm, and kissed him on the mouth; Now God be praised that both are safe! the old man and the youth. “Oh, father dear, those bloody wounds!” ’twas thus the young knight said: “Now would I three times rather bear those blows upon my head.” “Be still, be still, my own dear son! the wounds will soon be past; And God in Heaven above be praised, that we have met at last!” This lasted from the noonday well to the vesper tide, Then back into the city Sir Alebrand did ride. What bears he on his helmet? a little cross of gold; Who is he that rides beside him? his own dear father old. And with him to his castle, old Hildebrand he bore, And with his own hands served him—the mother grieved full sore— “Ah, son, my ever dearest son, the cause I fain would know, Why a strange prisoner, like this, should e‘er be honored so?” “Now, silence, dearest mother, and list to what I say! He almost slew me on the heath in open light to-day; He ne‘er shall wear, good mother, a prisoner‘s attire, ‘Tis Hildebrand, the valient, thy husband and my sire! Oh, mother, dearest mother, do him all honor now;” Then flew she to her husband, and served him well, I trow; What holds the brave old father? a glittering ring of gold; He drops it in the wine cup—it is her husband old! We congratulate our readers on having survived the reading of the above poem, written a thousand years ago, about old Dietrich, the “father Abraham” of all the Hildebrands; but he must not forget that he is subject to a relapse, for here are two verses not taken from the “Book of Heroes,” but from an old popular song in use to this day among the peasantry in South Germany: Hildebrand and his son Hudebrand. Hildebrand and his son Hudebrand—Alebrand, Rode off together with sword in hand—sword in hand— To make fierce war on Venice; Hildebrand and his son Hudebrand—Alebrand, Never could find the Venetian land—‘netian land. With flaming swords to menace!