“Hast thou chanced to see Apollo? “He a scarlet cloak is wearing, “Sweetly sings he, plays the lyre, “And he is my darling idol.” He however gave this answer, Whilst his little head he waggled Here and there, and comically At his sharp beard kept on twitching: “Have I chanced to see Apollo? “Yes, I certainly have seen him “When at Amsterdam full often, “In the German synagogue. “He was there the leading singer, “Known by name of Rabbi Faibisch, “Which in High-Dutch means Apollo,-- “But he’s not my idol truly. “Scarlet cloak? His scarlet cloak too “I remember; genuine scarlet, “And the price per ell eight florins,-- “Not all paid for to this moment. “His old father, Moses Jitscher, “Know I well; he’s circumciser “To the Portuguese, I fancy, “And to various sovereigns also. “And his mother is a cousin “Of my sister’s husband, trading “On the Gracht in pickled gherkins, “And in worn-out pairs of breeches. “In their son they take no pleasure; “On the lyre he plays not badly, “But, I grieve to say, far better “Plays he at taroc and ombre. “He is likewise a free-thinker, “Lost his place through eating swine’s flesh, “And then travell’d round the country “With some painted low comedians. “In the shops and on the markets “Has he acted as Jack-pudding, “Holofernes, or King David, “But the latter most excell’d in. “For the king’s own sorrows sang he “In the king’s own mother language, “Giving all the proper quavers “In the proper olden fashion. “Recently some wenches took he “From the Amsterdam casino, “And he’s travelling with these Muses “Round the country as Apollo. “One amongst them is a stout one, “Squeaking very much and grunting: “On account of her green laurel “Head-dress, they ‘the green sow’ call her.” HYMN TO KING LOUIS.[69] Behold great Louis, Bavaria’s king, Few monarchs are half so splendid; In him a king the Bavarians revere, From an ancient line descended. He’s fond of art: fair women to get For their portraits to sit, is his passion: In this painted seraglio takes he his walks, In eunuch-artistic fashion. A marble place of skulls hath he Near Ratisbon constructed, And all the arrangements for every head In his own royal person conducted. Walhalla-companions! A masterpiece, Where the merit of every man is Set forth, with his character and his acts, From Teut[70] to Schinderhannes.[71] But Luther, the blockhead, amongst them all, Has no place in this proud mausoleum; The whale ’mongst the fishes is often left out In a natural hist’ry museum. King Louis is also a poet renown’d; Whenever sings or plays he, Apollo falls down at his feet and exclaims: “O stop, or you’ll drive me quite crazy!”