LL-L: "Literature" LOWLANDS-L, 23.DEC.2000 (03) [E/LS]

[Lowlands-L]

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  L O W L A N D S - L * 23.DEC.2000 (03) * ISSN 189-5582 * LCSN 96-4226
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  A=Afrikaans, Ap=Appalachean, D=Dutch, E=English, F=Frisian, L=Limburgish
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From: R. F. Hahn [sassisch at yahoo.com]
Subject: Online resources

[The following is in Low Saxon (Low German) and English.]

Leve Lüüd',
Hier kriegt Jie den Wienachtsriemel vun'n amerikaanschen Dichter Clement
Clarke Moore, un daar to ook noch mien neddersassisch (nedderdüütsch)
Översetten.
Gode Wienacht, all to Hoop!
Reinhard/Ron

Folks,
Below please find Clement Clarke Moore's Chrismas poem followed by my Low
Saxon (Low German) translation.
Merry Christmas, altogether!
Reinhard/Ron

***

ACCOUNT OF A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS
('T was the Night before Christmas)
by Clement Clarke Moore (USA, 1779-1863)

'T was the night before Christmas, when all through the house
not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
while visions of sugar plums danced in their heads.
And Mama in her kerchief, and I in my cap,
had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
tore open the shutter, and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
gave the lustre of midday to objects below,
when, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles, his courses they came,
and he whistled and shouted and called them by name:

"Now Dasher! Now Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky
so up to the house-top the courses they flew,
with the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
the prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
and his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
and he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes--how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
and the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
and the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
that shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
and I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
soon gave me to know I had nothings to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
and filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
and giving a node, up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all fly like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!!"

***

WO SICK DAT MIT'N BESÖÖK VUN'N WIENACHTSMANN AFSPEELT HARR
('t Was de Avend vör Wiehnacht)
vun Clement Clarke Moore (USA, 1779-1863)
uut dat Ingelsche översett vun Reinhard F. Hahn, ©1997

't Was de Avend vör Wiehnacht, un in't hele Huus,
daar röög' sick keen Leven, nich eenmaal 'n Muus.
Een bie'n annern daar hüngen blang'n Aven de Strümp;
Daar hööp mennig een, dat de Wienachtsmann kümmt.

In de Bedden, daar legen kommodig de Göörn
un drömen vun Suckerplumm'n achtern un vörn.
Muddern mit er Dook, ick mit'n Dröömbüdel up,
weern jüst na us Kamer to'n Winterslaap rup.

Daar füng dat in'n Gaarn an to krachen un dunnern.
Ick uut't Bett un keek na, deed' mie unbannig wunnern.
Hinöver na't Finster birs ick ficks as de Blicks,
reet apen de Klapp un Gardinen as nicks.

In'n Maand sien glau Lüchten up'n jüst fullen Snee
was dat hell as an'n Middag. Dat was schier Töveree.
Un wat keken mien unglöövschen Ogen daar an?
Acht Rönndeerten! Un 'n Sleden, lüürlütt, achterran!

Dat ol' Fuurmanntje keek so kwick dwars un dweer.
Daar wüss ick ok foorts, dat't de Wienachtsmann weer.
Geswinner as Aadlers weern sien Deerten ankamen,
un he flait, un he grööl, un he reep jüm bie'n Namen:

"Nu, Birser! Nu, Dansser! Stulten, Voss, nu maal ficks!
Loos, Komeet un du, Kupido! Loos, Dunner un Blicks!
Up dat Vörderdack rup! Nu up't böverste! Loop!
Un nu gau wedder weg! Wedder weg, all to Hoop!"

Jüst as stoffdröge Bläder, de de Harfststörm rümdrifft,
de na baven rup fleegt, wenn't 'n Hinnernis gifft,
liek so flögen de Deerten na'n Dackfast gau an
un in'n Sleden vull Speeltüüg de Ol' achter ran.

Un 'n Ogenblick later höör ick baven vun't Dack
dat Klappern un Larmen vun Hööf, klicke-klack.
Ick duuk mie, draih mie üm, un ick seeg' mit'n Maal,
as de Wienachtsmann keem dörch'n Schosteen hindaal.

Sien Kledaasch weer uut Pelss vun'n Kopp hin to'n Foot,
un se was asig schietig mit Asch un mit Soot.
Mit Speeltüüg up'n Puckel in de Dönss is he kaam'
un seeg' maist so uut as 'n Höker mit Kraam.

Sien Ogen -- wo de blinker! -- un Küülkens vergnööglich!
Sien Backen un Nees' so root! 't Was maist unmööglich!
Sien lustig, lütt Muul, dat grien-smüüster för dull,
un de Baart up sien Kinnback was slo-witt un vull.

'n Piepensteel höld he fast twüschen sien Tään'n.
Üm sien Kopp hüng de Röök as 'n Wulk or 'n Mään.
Sien Gesicht, dat was breed. Bannig rund was sien Buuk.
Bie't Lachen, daar wackel un swabbel he luuk.

Heel plump un kumplett was de lustige Mann,
as ick keek, müss ick lachen; ick kunn nich gegen an.
Man he smüüster un smiel un kniep-öög' na mie hin,
un daar wüss ick, de Mann hett nicks Leget in'n Sinn.

Keen Woord harr he snackt bie de Arbaid, de Mann.
Elk een Strump harr he füllt, un denn keek he mie an.
Un he legg 'n Wiesfinger an de Nees' mit'n Wupp,
un he nick-köpp un flöög' dörch'n Schosteen gau rup.

He jump trügg na sien Sleden, flait luud, un geswind
flögen Deerten un Sleden dörch Wulken un Wind.
Man ick höör em noch ropen vun Wieden heel sacht:
,,Frooe Wienacht, leve Lüüd' to Hoop, un gode Nacht!''

***

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