"'Tis the gardener's saucy youngster Who my trumpet thus is blowing," Said young Werner, in his anger Starting from his seat so quickly That the storks thereby much frightened, Fluttering upward sought the tower; And so quickly that they even Had no time to take the eel off. Like a poor old torso lay he On the sand so pitifully; And the chronicles are silent Whether the old father stork came Ever back to take his booty. Werner meanwhile to the garden Climbed up; to the shady arbour On the soft green sward he's walking, That the pebbly footpath may not By the noise betray his coming. In the very act of sinning Doth he wish to catch the rascal, And to beat time to his music On his back without relenting. Thus he comes up to the arbour, With his hand raised high in anger. But, as if 'twere struck by lightning, To his side it dropped down quickly, And the stroke remained, like German Unity and other projects, Only an ideal dream. Then beheld he Margaretta Pressing to her lips the trumpet, And her rosy cheeks are puffed out Like those trumpet-blowing angels' In the church of Fridolinus. Up she starts now as a thief would In the neighbour's yard detected, And the trumpet drops abruptly From the touch of her soft lips. Werner covered her confusion Through a clever maze of language; And with ardour he commences On the spot to teach the maiden The first steps in trumpet-blowing In strict order, with due method; Shows the instrument's construction, How to use the lips in blowing, That true tones may be forthcoming. Margaretta listened docile. And before she is aware, new Tones she finds she is awaking From the trumpet which young Werner With low bows had handed to her. Easily from him she learneth What her father's cuirassiers blew As the call to charge in battle; Only a few notes and simple, But most pithy and inspiring.