Der Mohrenfürst auf der Messe
Language: German (Deutsch)
Auf der Messe, da zieht es, da stürmt es hinan
Zum Cirkus, zum glatten, geebneten Plan.
Es schmettern Trompeten, das Becken klingt,
Dumpf wirbelt die Trommel, Bajazzo springt.
Herbei, herbei! das tobt und drängt;
Die Reiter fliegen; die Bahn durchsprengt
Der Türkenrapp' und der Brittenfuchs;
Die Weiber zeigen den üppigen Wuchs.
Und an der Reitbahn verschleiertem Tor
Steht ernst ein krausgelockter Mohr;
Die türkische Trommel schlägt er laut,
Auf der Trommel liegt eine Löwenhaut.
Er sieht nicht der Reiter zierlichen Schwung,
Er sieht nicht der Roße gewagten Sprung.
Mit starrem, trockenem Auge schaut
Der Mohr auf die zotige Löwenhaut.
Er denkt an den fernen, fernen Niger,
Und daß er gejagt den Löwen und Tiger;
Und daß er geschwungen im Kampfe das Schwert,
Und daß er nimmer zum Lager gekehrt;
Und daß Sie Blumen für ihn gepflückt;
Und daß Sie das Haar mit Perlen geschmückt.
Sein Auge ward naß, mit dumpfem Klang
Schlug er das Fell, daß es rasselnd zersprang.
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):
Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- ENG English (Daniel Platt) , "The Moorish Prince", copyright © 2005, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [
Administrator]
This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 24
Word count: 159
The Moorish Prince
Language: English after the German (Deutsch)
There at the fair, they are coming in hordes,
A circus, on land that the fairground affords.
The trumpets are blaring, the cymbals are crashing,
A drumroll is thudding, clowns leaping and dashing.
Come in, come in! - they clamor and bray,
The riders are flying; they speed 'round the way,
The Turkish black stallion, the British fox streaks,
The women display their alluring physiques.
At the hippodrome's veiled and shrouded door
Stands gravely a kinky-dreadlocked Moor;
He beats on a Turk-drum, making a din,
And the drum is draped with a lionskin.
He sees not the riders' graceful sweeps,
He sees not the steeds' adventurous leaps.
With rigid, dry eyes the Moor will begin
To stare at the ragged lionskin.
He thinks of the distant, distant Niger
And that he had hunted the lion, the tiger;
And that, in the battle, his sword had burned,
And that he had never to camp returned.
And that she flowers for him had picked,
And that she her hair with the pearls had tricked -
His eye became moist; with thudding stroke
He beat on the drum, 'til it rattled and broke.
Text Authorship:
Based on:
This text was added to the website: 2005-07-27
Line count: 24
Word count: 188