But as my own lord and master I am travelling for my pleasure, And await whatever fortune On my pathway may be blooming." "Very good, then," said the Baron. "If it stands thus, you may well hear Everything I have to tell you; But before we go on farther, With old wine it must be seasoned." Cleverly his thoughts divining, Margaretta, from the cellar, Now brought up two dusty bottles Which, with spider-webs all covered, In the sand had lain half-buried; Brought with them two fine-cut goblets, Which she filled and then presented. "This wine ripened long before the War raged in our German country," Said the Baron. "'Tis a famous Choice old wine which grew at Grenzach. Brightly in the glass it sparkles, Like pure gold its colour shineth, And a fragrance rises from it Like the finest greenhouse flowers. Master Trumpeter, ring glasses!" Loudly then rang both their goblets. Emptying his, the Baron spun out Farther still the conversation. "My young friend, you know, as long as This world lasts, there will be people Who are fond of hobby-horses. Some are mystics and ascetics, Others love old wine or brandy. Some, antiquities are seeking, Others are for chafers craving; Many others make bad verses. 'Tis a curious joke that each one Much prefers to choose a calling Most unsuited to his nature. I thus also ride my hobby, And this hobby is the noble Muse of music who regales me. As King Saul's deep sorrow vanished At the sound of David's harp once, So with cheering sounds of music Do I banish age's inroads And the gout, my old disturber. When sometimes in _tempo presto_ I an orchestra am leading, Oft I think I'm once more riding At the head of my brave squadrons. Right wing, charge the enemy! charge! At them now you piercing violins! Fire away you kettle-drums now! In the town here there are many Skilful players--though among them Is a want of sense artistic, And of connoisseurship, only Their good will doth hide their failings. Violin, flute, also viol, All these parts are well supported And the contrabass is perfect. But _one_ player still is wanting; And, my friend, what is a general Without orderlies, without a Fugleman the line of battle, And a band without the trumpet? "Once 'twas different These old walls can Hear him still, the valiant Rassmann, The chief trumpeter of my squadrons. Ha! that was a noble blowing! Rassmann, wherefore didst thou die?