Versank der letzte Sonnenstrahl, Da bin ich fortgeschlichen, O! Die Nacht war regnicht, schwarz und kalt, Als ich mich stahl hin durch den Wald Mein Ännchen ist ein reizend Kind, Schmuck ist ihr Antlitz, ihr Gemüt Mein Taglohn ist mein ganzes Gut, Doch nicht nach Schätzen steht mein Mut, Mein alter Brotherr schmunzelt froh, Kommt Glück, kommt Leid, was kümmert's mich? Ich nehm', was Gott will geben, O! Nur einen einz'gen Wunsch hab' ich : Mit meinem Lieb zu leben, O! Mary Morison. This, one of the most exquisite songs of Burns, has several translators. Mr. Silbergleit's version has many beautiful lines, but he spoils the effect of his work as a translation by entirely omitting the name Mary Morison and using only "Marie"; and in some cases he changes the tender touches, as, for instance, in the last verse, where Burns causes the lovereven while despairing of her love, and only asking her sympathetic pity-still to believe in her gentleness and true womanly nobility "A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison." Mr. Silbergleit puts "Wenn solch Erbarmen du nicht übst, Dann bist du's nicht, bist nicht Marie."1 which is pitched in a much lower key than the beautiful thought which the lines of Burns convey. Mr. Laun's translation has also much to recommend it, but he now and again loses some of the most touching traits of the original, for instance "Manch' Mädchen schien der Schönheit Preis, Doch keine war im ganzen Kreis So schön wie Mary Morison," >> 2 where it will be seen the whole point is lost. A witty writer tells a story of a young officer who admitted that his sweetheart was not particularly beautiful, nor endowed with a perfectly graceful figure; "but take her all in all," said he, "and who is so winsome and winning?" Precisely! this is the feeling Burns expresses 1 If such pity thou dost not practice, 2 Many a maid seemed the prize of beauty, So beautiful as Mary Morison. "Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the town," yet she " was na Mary Morison." It would be difficult to find the concentration of the whole thought upon one person, the absolute supremacy of true love, so perfectly expressed as in these four words, and it is in the rendering of such concentrated expressions, as well as of the naïve and pathetic traits, that so many of our translators fail. Mr. Otto Baisch gives a pretty song, but it does not contain the charming characteristics of the original. I take, for brevity's sake, the same verse as a test "Errang auch manche Wohlgefallen, It will be seen that the magic and tenderness of the original are absent from these lines. Mr. Winterfeld produces a good song, and in some respects a fair translation, but it is also spoiled as a rendering of Burns by such lines as "Flog doch zu dir die Phantasie, Denn alles And're schien mir schaal," "2 which fail entirely in conveying the original "To thee my fancy took its wing I sat, but neither heard nor saw"; 1 Tho' many succeeded in obtaining favour, And one, indeed, was called the Sun of the town, Gently sighing, I yet said about them all, You do not equal Mary Morison. 2 My fancy flew to thee, For all else seemed insipid. and "O, kannst den Frieden rauben Du is far, far from meaning "O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, Wha for thy sake would gladly die?" K. Bartsch gives a version, very faithfully rendered, and with fewer departures from the original. I therefore give it, as also that of G. Legerlotz, which is likewise fairly well translated, although it shows many of the defects of the four first named writers. MARY MORISON. K. BARTSCH. O Mary, komm ans Fensterlein, Ein müder Sklav' im Brand der Sonn', Du holde Mary Morison ! Als gestern durch den Saal der Tanz Ich sass, doch sah und hört' ich nichts. Und die des ganzen Städtchens Kron', 10, canst thou rob the peace Of the man who never saddened thee? O warum schaffst du solchen Schmerz Ihm, dem du mehr als Leben bist? Kannst, Mary, brechen du ein Herz, Des einzige Schuld die Liebe ist? Kannst du nicht Lieb' um Liebe weihn, O so sei Mitleid doch mein Lohn; Ein grausam Herz kann nimmer sein Das Herz von Mary Morison. MARY MORISON. GUSTAV LEgerlotz. O Mary, komm ans Fenster nu! Das den Geiz sei Gold vergesse heisst. Froh trüg au's schwerste Joch mei Geist, E treuer Sklav, vo Sonn ze Sonn, Wann 's ihm e süsses Glück verheisst: Die holde Mary Morison. Als heint beim Klang der Saiten dort Der gern sei Herzblut für di giebt, O Mary, hast für den nur Pein? Des Schuld nur isch, dass er di liebt, Kannst den der Todesmarter weihn? Und kann's denn Lieb um Lieb nit sein, Es labt au schon des Mitleids Bronn. O hart isch nimmermeh, o nein ! Der Sinn vo Mary Morison. |