Category Archives: Ludwig Uhland

Ludwig Uhland: “Night Journey”

Excerpt, “Schiller’s Homage of the Arts, with it Miscellaneous Pieces from Rückert, Freiligrath, and Other German Poets.”  By Charles T. Brooks. 1846.

J. Ludwig Uhland: “Bout Rimes — III. The Night-wanderers”

J. Ludwig Uhland: “Bout Rimes — II. The Troubadour and the Critic”

J. Ludwig Uhland: “Bout Rimes — I. The Critic”


J. Ludwig Uhland: “The New Fairy-Tale”

J. Ludwig Uhland: “The Cavalier By Night”

Ludwig Uhland: “The German Philological Association”

J. Ludwig Uhland: “The Cupbearer of Limburg”

Excerpt, “The Songs and Ballads of Uhland.” Translated from the German by the Rev. W. W. Skeat, M.A. 1864.

Illustrations from “German Poets and Their Times:  A Series of Memoirs and Translations” by Joseph Gostwick with Portraits by C. Jager. 1874.

J. Ludwig Uhland (1787–1862)

Ludwig Uhland: “The Peasant’s Rule”

Excerpt:  “The Book of German Songs from the Sixteenth to the Nineteenth Century.” Translated and Edited by H. W. Dulcken. 1856.

J. Ludwig Uhland: “Tom Thumb”

Excerpt, “German Lyric Poetry:  A Collection of Songs and Ballads.”  Translated from the Best German Lyric Poets, with Notes by Charles Timothy Brooks.  1863.

tom thumb

Ludwig Uhland: “The Ancestral Vault”

Excerpt, “Ballads from the German.”  Translator, Henry Englis.  1864.


The Ancestral Vault


There went a hoary war-worn sire

Across the solitary wold,

Up to the sanctuary old,

And stepped into the gloomy choir.


In ranks, the bannered vault along,

The grim ancestral coffins lay;

And through the darkness came alway

A warning, wondrous strain of song.


“Ye warriors, in your shrouds of mail,

Your stately burial-dirge I hear;

It calls me to yon empty bier—

It bids your latest kinsman hail.”


There stood, by shadows half concealed,

One empty bier amongst the dead;

He laid him in the narrow bed,

Cold pillowed on his dinted shield.


His sword, recumbent on his breast,

Was folded in the sleep of death;

Hushed was the ghostly anthem’s breath,

And the dead warriors were at rest.


J. Ludwig Uhland: “The Mower’s Maiden”

Excerpt, “German Ballads, Songs, etc., comprising translations from Schiller, Uhland, Burger, Goethe, Korner, Becker,  Fouque, Chamisso, etc., etc.” London:  Edward Lumley. 1900.

The Mowers Maiden

The Mower’s Maiden.

“Good morrow to thee, Mary ! right early art thou laden !

Love hath not made thee slothful, thou true and steadfast maiden!

Ay, if in three brief days, methinks, thy task of work be done,

I shall no longer have the heart to part thee from my son.”


It was a wealthy farmer spake, it was a maiden listened:

Oh, how her loving bosom swelled, and how her full eye glistened !

New life is in her limbs, her hand outdoes her comrades all,

See how she wields the scythe, and see how fast the full crops fall!


And when the noon grows sultry; and the weary peasants wend

To sleep in pleasant thickets, and o’er cooling streams to bend;

Still are the humming-bees at work beneath that burning sky,

And Mary, diligent as they, works on unceasingly.


The sun hath sunk, the evening bell gives gentle summons home;

” Enough,” her neighbours cry, ” enough ! come, Mary, prithee come! “

Shepherds, and flocks, and husbandmen, pass homeward through the dew,

But Mary only whets her scythe and goes to work anew.


And now the dews are thickening, the moon and stars are bright,

Sweet are the new-mown furrows, and sweet the songs of night;

But Mary lies not down to rest, and stands not still to hear,

The rustling of her ceaseless scythe is music to her ear.


Even thus from morn till evening, even thus from eve to morn,

She toils, by strong love nourished, by happy hope upborne;

Till when the third day’s sun arose, the labour was complete,

And there stood Mary weeping, for joy so strange and sweet.


“Good morrow to thee, Mary! How now ? — the task is done!

Lo, for such matchless industry, rich guerdon shall be won;

But for the wedding—nay indeed—my words were only jest;

How foolish and how credulous we find a lover’s breast!”


He spake and went his way, and there the hapless maid stood still,

Her weary limbs they shook, they sank, her heart grew stiff and chill ;

Speech, sense, and feeling, like a cloud, did from her spirit pass,

And there they found her lying upon the new-mown grass!


And thus a dumb and death-like life for years the maiden led,

A drop of fragrant honey was all her daily bread.

Oh, make her grave in pleasant shades, where softest flow’rets grow,

For such a loving heart as hers is seldom found below !


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