But in fain tid we ashk vhere der Breitmann hat peen, Vot he tid; vot he pass droo - or vot he might seen? Vhere he kits his vine horse, or who gafe him dem woons, Und how Brovidence plessed him mit tea-pods und shpoons? For to all of dem queeries he only reblies, "If you dells me no quesdions, I ashks you no lies!" So 'twas glear dat some derriple mysh'dry moost pe Vhere he kits all dat ploonder he prings to de sea. Dere ish bapers in Richmond dells derriple lies How Sherman's grand armee hafe raise deir sooplies: For ve readt in brindt dat der Sheneral Grant Say de bummers hafe only shoost take vat dey vant. But 'tis vhispered dat vhile a refolfer'll go round Der BREITMANN vill nefer a peggin' be found; Or shtarvin' ash brisner - by doonder! - not he, Vhile der Teufel could help him to ged to de sea. BREITMANN'S GOING TO CHURCH. "Vides igitur, Collega carissime, visitationem canonicam esse rem haud ita periculosam, sed valde amoenam, si modo vinum, groggio et cibi praesto sunt." - Novissimae Epistolae Obscurorum Virorum, Berolini F. Berggold, 1869. Epistola xxiii., p. 63. D'VAS near de state of Nashfille, In de town of Tennessee, Der Breitmann vonce vas quarderd Mit all his cavallrie. Der Sheneral kept him glose in gamp, He vouldn't let dem go; Dey couldn't shdeal de first plack hen, Or make de red cock crow. Und virst der Breitmann vildly shmiled, Und denn he madly shvore; "Crate h--l, mit shpoons und shinsherbread, Can dis pe makin war? Verdammt pe all der discipline! Verdammt der Sheneral! Vere I vonce on de road, his will, Vere wurst mir und egal. [19] "Oh vhere ish all de plazin roofs Dat claddened vonce mine eyes? Und vhere de crand plantaschions Vhere ve gaddered many a brize? Und vhere de plasted shpies ve hung A howlin loud mit fear? Und vhere de rascal push-whackers Ve shashed like vritened deer? "De roofs are shtandin fast and firm Mit repels blottin oonder; De crand blantaschions lie round loose For Morgan's men to ploonder! De shpies go valkin out und in, Ash sassy ash can pe; Und in de voods de push-whackers Are makin foon of me! "Oh vere I on my schimmel grey Mein sabre in mein hand, Dey should drack me py de ruins Of de houses troo de land. Dey should drack me py de puzzards High sailen ofer head, A vollowin der Breitmann's trail To claw de repel dead." Outspoke der bold Von Stossenheim, Who had theories of Gott: "O Breitmann, dis ish shoodgement on De vays dat you hafe trot. You only lifes to joy yourself, Yet you, yourself moost say, Dat self-defelopment requires De religios Idee." Dey sat dem down and argued id, Like Deutschers vree from fear, Dill dey schmoke ten pounds of knaster, Und drinked drei fass of bier. Der Breitmann go py Schopenhauer, Boot Veit he had him denn; For he dook him on de angles Of de moral oxygen.