RHINE-WINE
When laurel wreaths the glass’ vintage mellow,
And drink it gaily dry!
Through furthest Europe, know, my worthy fellow,
For such in vain ye’ll try.
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Nor Hungary nor Poland e’er could boast it;
And as for Gallia’s vine,
Saint Veit, the Ritter, if he choose, may toast it, –
We, Germans, love the Rhine.
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Our fatherland we thank for such a blessing,
And many more beside;
And many more, though little show possessing,
Well worth our love and pride.
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Not everywhere the vine bedecks our border,
As well the mountains show,
That harbour in their bosoms foul disorder;
Not worth their room below.
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Thuringia’s hills, for instance, are aspiring
To rear a juice like wine;
But that is all; nor mirth nor songs inspiring,
It breathes not of the vine.
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And other hills, with buried treasure glowing,
For wine are far too cold;
Though iron ores and cobalt there are growing,
And chance some paltry gold.
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The Rhine! The Rhine!
There grow the gay plantations!
O, hallowed be the Rhine!
Upon his banks are viewed the rich potations
Of this consoling wine.
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Drink to the Rhine! And every coming morrow
Be mirth and music thine!
And when we meet a child of care and sorrow,
We’ll send him to the Rhine.
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