Im Herz tobt altes Grollen,
Der Sturm pfeift durch die Luft --
"Du kommst mir eben rechte
Des Weges, welscher Schuft!
Dein Dolchstoß ist pariret,
Nun, werther Freund, hab' Acht,
Wie auf den welschen Schädel
Die deutsche Klinge kracht!"
-- Die Sonn' war untergegangen,
Fern, fern beim Vatican;
Sie schien des andern Morgens
Auf einen todten Mann.
About the headline (FAQ)
Text Authorship:
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
- by Carl Georg Peter Grädener (1812 - 1883), "Im Herzen tobt altes Grollen", op. 60 no. 10, published 1875 [ low voice and piano ], from Werner's Lieder aus Welschland aus Scheffel's Trompeter von Säkkingen, no. 10, Braunschweig, Litolff [sung text not yet checked]
- by Hans August Friedrich Zincke genannt Sommer (1837 - 1922), "Der Brigant", op. 12 no. 5 (1887-89), published 1889 [ medium voice and piano ], from Werner's Lieder aus Welschland nach V. von Scheffel's Dichtung "Der Trompeter von Säkkingen" für 1 mittlere Singstimme mit Pianoforte, no. 5, Leipzig, Leede [sung text not yet checked]
- by Johann Traunwart , "Im Herz tobt altes Grollen", published 1889 [ low voice and piano ], from Werners Lieder aus Wälschland für 1 tiefe Singstimme mit Pianofortebegleitung, no. 10, Wien, Wetzler [sung text not yet checked]
- by Heinrich Vogl (1845 - 1900), "Im Herz tobt altes Grollen", published 1894 [ voice and piano ], from 14 Lieder für 1 Singstimme mit Pianoforte aus dem Trompeter von Säkkingen, no. 10, Leipzig, Wild [sung text not yet checked]
Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- CAT Catalan (Català) (Salvador Pila) , copyright © 2023, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- ENG English (Sharon Krebs) , copyright © 2014, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [
Administrator]
This text was added to the website: 2010-09-30
Line count: 12
Word count: 55
In my heart rages old resentment,
The storm whistles through the air --
“You come along at the perfect time
On my road, you Italian cad!
Your dagger thrust is deflected,
Now, worthy friend, take note,
How upon an Italian skull
The German blade crashes!”
-- The sun had gone down,
Far, far away by the Vatican;
The next morning it shone down
Upon a dead man.
