Fresh and free and good and merry, Soap he holds in detestation, (Luxury of modern washing,) Like the posture-master Massmann.
But our young friend is most genial Where upon the tree he clambers, Which along the steepest rock-side From the deep abyss upriseth,
And extendeth to the summit, When the family at night-time Gather all around their father, Toying in the evening coolness.
Then the old one loves to tell them What he in the world has witness’d; How he many men and cities Had beheld, and greatly suffer’d,
Like Laertes’ noble offspring, But in one thing still unlike him,-- Namely, that his wife went with him, His dear black Penelope.
Atta Troll then also tells them Of the wondrous approbation That he, by his skill in dancing, Had acquired in ev’ry quarter.
He assured them young and old Had exultingly admired him, When he danced upon the market To the sweet notes of the bagpipe.
In particular the ladies, Those dear connoisseurs of all things, Had with vehemence applauded, And had ogled him with favour.
O the vanity of Artists! Our old dancing bear with simpers Calls to mind the time when late he To the public show’d his talent.
Overcome by self laudation, He would fain by act exhibit That he’s no mere boaster only, But a really first-rate dancer.
From the ground then sudden springs he, On his hinder paws upstanding, And, as formerly, he dances The gavotte, his favourite dance.
Mute, with muzzles gaping open, The young bears look on with wonder, While their father in the moonlight Capers here and there thus strangely.
In the cavern, by his young ones, Sick at heart, upon his back lies Atta Troll, while thoughtful sucks he At his paws, and sucks, and growls:
“Mumma, Mumma, swarthy jewel, “Whom I out of life’s wide ocean “Once did fish, in life’s wide ocean “Once again I now have lost thee!
“Shall I ne’er again behold thee, “Or beyond the grave p’rhaps only, “Where, set free from earthly trammels, “Thy dear soul is glorified?
“Would that I, alas! could once more “Lick thy well-belovèd muzzle, “My dear Mumma, which so sweetly “Stroked me over, as with honey!
“Would that I again could snuffle “That sweet smell, thy own peculiar, “O my dear and swarthy Mumma, “Charming as the scent of roses!