There is a sound that's dear to me, It haunts me in my sleep; I wake, and, if I hear it not, I cannot choose but weep. Above the roaring of the wind, Above the river's flow, Methinks I hear the mystic cry Of "Clo!--Old Clo!" The exile's song, it thrills among The dwellings of the free, Its sound is strange to English ears, But 'tis not strange to me; For it hath shook the tented field In ages long ago, And hosts have quailed before the cry Of "Clo!--Old Clo!" Oh, lose it not! forsake it not! And let no time efface The memory of that solemn sound, The watchword of our race; For not by dark and eagle eye The Hebrew shall you know, So well as by the plaintive cry Of "Clo!--Old Clo!" Even now, perchance, by Jordan's banks, Or Sidon's sunny walls, Where, dial-like, to portion time, The palm-tree's shadow falls, The pilgrims, wending on their way, Will linger as they go, And listen to the distant cry Of "Clo!--Old Clo!" Bursch Groggenburg. [AFTER THE MANNER OF SCHILLER.] "Bursch! if foaming beer content ye, Come and drink your fill; In our cellars there is plenty; Himmel! how you swill! That the liquor hath allurance, Well I understand: But 'tis really past endurance, When you squeeze my hand!" And he heard her as if dreaming, Heard her half in awe; And the meerschaum's smoke came streaming From his open jaw: And his pulse beat somewhat quicker Than it did before, And he finished off his liquor, Staggered through the door; Bolted off direct to Munich, And within the year Underneath his German tunic Stowed whole butts of beer. And he drank like fifty fishes, Drank till all was blue; For he felt extremely vicious-- Somewhat thirsty too. But at length this dire deboshing Drew towards an end; Few of all his silver groschen Had he left to spend. And he knew it was not prudent Longer to remain; So, with weary feet, the student Wended home again. At the tavern's well-known portal Knocks he as before, And a waiter, rather mortal, Hiccups through the door-- "Master's sleeping in the kitchen; You'll alarm the house; Yesterday the Jungfrau Fritchen Married baker Kraus!" Like a fiery comet bristling, Rose the young man's hair, And, poor soul! he fell a-whistling Out of sheer despair. Down the gloomy street in silence, Savage-calm he goes; But he did no deed of vi'lence-- Only blew his nose. Then he hired an airy garret Near her dwelling-place; Grew a beard of fiercest carrot, Never washed his face; Sate all day beside the casement, Sate a dreary man; Found in smoking such an easement As the wretched can; Stared for hours and hours together, Stared yet more and more; Till in fine and sunny weather, At the baker's door, Stood, in apron white and mealy, That beloved dame, Counting out the loaves so freely, Selling of the same.