Poor Peter

While Hans and Grettel are dancing with glee,
And each of them loudly rejoices,
Poor Peter looks as pale as can be,
And perfectly mute his voice is.

While Hans and Grettel are bridegroom and bride,
And glitter in smart ostentation,
Poor Peter must still in his working dress bide,
And bites his nails with vexation.

Then softly Peter said to himself,
As he gazed on the couple sadly:
“Ah, had I not been such a sensible elf,
It had fared with my life but badly!”

“Within my breast there sits a woe
That seems my breast to sever;
Where’er I stand, where’er I go,
It drives me onward ever.

“It makes me tow’rd my loved one fly,
As if she could restore me;
Yet when I gaze upon her eye,
My sorrows rise before me.

“I clamber up the mountain now,
In lonely sorrow creeping,
And standing silent on its brow,
I cannot cease from weeping.”

Poor Peter slowly totters by,
Pale as a corpse, and stealthily;
The very people in the street
Stand still, when his sad form they meet.

The maidens whisper’d as they pitied:
“The grave he has this moment quitted.”
Ah no, my dear young maidens fair,
He’s just about to lie down there!

As he is of his love bereft,
The grave’s the best place that is left,
Where he his aching heart may lay,
And sleep until the Judgment Day.