er;
And the Abbess wept so freely
That the grass thought it was raining.
With the tears of the good Abbess
Closes now the touching story
Of the young musician Werner
And the lovely Margaretta.

But who's wandering late at night-time
Through the Corso, who is stealing
Through that dark and narrow side-street?
'Tis the faithful coachman Anton;
Filled with joy is his whole being.
To give vent unto this feeling
He is going to the wine-house,
To the tavern del Fachino.
And to-night he is not drinking
Country wine in fogliette;
He has ordered a straw-covered
Bottle of good Orvieto
And of Monte Porzio.
Panes are crashing, fragments flying;
For he throws each empty bottle
In his rapture through the window.
Though indignant at the oil-drops
Which upon the wine are floating,
Just like comets in the ether,
Still he drinks and drinks with ardour;
Only while the tavern-keeper
Went to fetch him the sixth bottle
From the cellar, thus he spoke out:
"Thou, oh heart of an old coachman,
Now rejoice, for soon thou'lt harness
Thy good horses and drive homeward.
From the standpoint of a coachman
Italy is but a mournful
Land, behind in every comfort.
Horrid roads, and frequent toll-gates,
Musty stalls, and oats quite meagre,
Coaches rough! I feel insulted
Every time I see those waggons
Drawn by oxen yoked together.
The first element is wanting
Of a coachman's daily comfort,
'Tis the handy German hostler.
Oh how much I miss those worthies!
Oh how gladly I will welcome
One in pointed cap and apron!
In my joy again to see him
I will hug and even kiss him.
And at home what great surprises
Are in store! Oh never was I
So impressed with the grave duties
Of a coachman as at present
At a proud trot, such as never
Has been seen in this whole country,
Shall I drive my lord and ladies
Home through Florence and Milan.

"At Schaffhausen, the last station
For our night's rest, I must promptly
Send a messenger on horseback,
And he must alarm the city:
'Put up quickly all your banners,
Load your cannons for saluting,
And erect an arch of honour!'