The sun in the heaven won't pause without change, But speeds on through lands and o'er oceans to range; The wave will not cling to the same lonesome strand; The storms, they go roaring with might through the land. --(The land). With clouds, fast careering, the bird floats along, And sings in the far-land its home-loving song; Through forest and field so the Bursche is hurl'd, To be, like his mother, the wandering world. --(The world). There greet him the birds which beyond seas he knew; From fields of his home-scenes 'tis here that they flew. The sweet flowers around him familiarly grow, In airs from his country, far wafted, they blow. --(They blow). The birds! O well know they his father's own towers; For garlands of love once he planted those flowers. And love, it still follows, still gives him the hand, And makes him a home in that furthermost land. --(That land). Before each president lies a drawn sword, with which, as signal of command, he strikes upon the table. It is forbidden to every one, on pain of a beer-penalty, to interrupt the song in any manner whatever. So now the singing and drinking go forward in regular course. At a later hour a supper is eaten, and the Commers is closed by the singing of "The Landsfather," after which there is no more singing, but it immediately becomes free to every one to stay and kneip on as long as he likes. When "The Landsfather" is to begin, the presidents command "ad loca!" Every one must quietly take his seat, and it is allowed to no one, as otherwise commonly happens at kneipings, to take off his coat, and sit in his shirt-sleeves. All must be conducted solemnly and seriously. All voices join in-- THE CONSECRATION SONG, OR LANDSFATHER. Silence all ye, each one call ye Unto solemn tones his ear! Hark, the song of songs I raise now, German brothers, join in praise now, Sound it, Sound it back a chorus clear! Of your Fatherland the song; Fatherland! thou land so famous, Sacred to thy glory claim us;-- Germans proudly, swell ye loudly, We, our swords, to thee belong! Life and living to thee giving, We are all prepared to bleed: Ready at each hour for dying, Death, with all his wounds defying, If our Fatherland it need. He who feels not; he who zeals not, In true worth to be arrayed,-- He shall not our bond dishonour; This our Bride,[38] swear not upon her; Nor the German sword degrade.