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The Master Singers of Nuremberg.
19
Prentice.
Good will!
(sits down again.)
Kothner.
Hans Sachs?
David (officiously rising).
He's there, sir!
Sachs (threatening David).
Tingles thy skin?—
Excuse me, Master!—Sachs has come in.
Excuse me, Master!—Sachs has come in.
(sits.)
Kothner.
Sixtus Beckmesser?
Beckmesser.
Always near Sachs,
Then I have a rhyme to "bloom and wax."
Then I have a rhyme to "bloom and wax."
(sits close to Sachs, who laughs.)
Kothner.
Ulric Eisslinger?
Eisslinger?.
Here!
(sits.)
Kothner.
Hans Foltz?
Foltz.
I'm here.
(sits.)
Kothner.
Hans Schwarz?
Schwarz.
The list now halts.
(sits.)
Kothner
The meeting's full; a goodly show.
Shall we make choice of a Marker now?
Shall we make choice of a Marker now?
Vogelgesang.
The Festival first.
Beckmesser (to Kothner).
If your are press'd,
My turn I'll yield to you with zest.
My turn I'll yield to you with zest.
Pogner.
Not yet, my Masters! let that alone.
A weighty matter I would make known.
A weighty matter I would make known.
(All the Masters rise and reseat themselves.)
Kothner.
With pleasure, Master! Tell!
Pogner.
Then hear, and mark me well!—
St. John's most holy festal day,
Ye know, we keep to-morrow;
In meadows green, among the hay,
With song and dance and merry play.
Each heart will gladness borrow
And cast aside all sorrow;
So each will sport as best he may.
The Singing-school we Masters here
A staid church-choir will christen:
From out the gates with merry cheer
To open meadows we will steer,
While festal banners glisten:
The populace shall listen
To Master Songs with layman's ear.
For those who best succeed in song
Are gifts of various sizes,
And all will hail, full loud and long,
Both melodies and prizes.
I am, thank God! a wealthy man;
And, as each giveth what he can,
I've ransacked ev'ry coffer
To find a prize to offer,
To shame not to be brought:—
Now, hear what I've bethought.—
Through German lands when I have roved
It pained me, as I listed,
To hear the burghers are not loved,
Deemed selfish and close-fisted.
In low life, as in courts the same,
I always heard the bitter blame
That only treasure and gold
The burgher's thoughts can hold.
That we in all Empire's bounds
Alone have Art promoted,
I fancy they scarcely have noted:
But how this to our honor redounds,
And how, with proudest care,
We treasure the good and rare.
What Art is worth—what it can do—
Now have I a mind to show unto you.
So hear, Masters, what thing
As a prize I mean to bring.—
The singer, to whose lyric skill
The public voice the prize shall win,
On John the Baptist's day,
—Be he who'er he may—
I, Pogner, an Art-supporter,
A townsman of this quarter,
Will give, with my gold and goods beside,
Eva, my only child, for bride.
St. John's most holy festal day,
Ye know, we keep to-morrow;
In meadows green, among the hay,
With song and dance and merry play.
Each heart will gladness borrow
And cast aside all sorrow;
So each will sport as best he may.
The Singing-school we Masters here
A staid church-choir will christen:
From out the gates with merry cheer
To open meadows we will steer,
While festal banners glisten:
The populace shall listen
To Master Songs with layman's ear.
For those who best succeed in song
Are gifts of various sizes,
And all will hail, full loud and long,
Both melodies and prizes.
I am, thank God! a wealthy man;
And, as each giveth what he can,
I've ransacked ev'ry coffer
To find a prize to offer,
To shame not to be brought:—
Now, hear what I've bethought.—
Through German lands when I have roved
It pained me, as I listed,
To hear the burghers are not loved,
Deemed selfish and close-fisted.
In low life, as in courts the same,
I always heard the bitter blame
That only treasure and gold
The burgher's thoughts can hold.
That we in all Empire's bounds
Alone have Art promoted,
I fancy they scarcely have noted:
But how this to our honor redounds,
And how, with proudest care,
We treasure the good and rare.
What Art is worth—what it can do—
Now have I a mind to show unto you.
So hear, Masters, what thing
As a prize I mean to bring.—
The singer, to whose lyric skill
The public voice the prize shall win,
On John the Baptist's day,
—Be he who'er he may—
I, Pogner, an Art-supporter,
A townsman of this quarter,
Will give, with my gold and goods beside,
Eva, my only child, for bride.
The Masters
(animatedly to one another).
That's nobly said! Brave words—brave man!
You see now what a Nuremberger can!
So far and wide we'll raise always
The worthy burgher Pogner's praise!
You see now what a Nuremberger can!
So far and wide we'll raise always
The worthy burgher Pogner's praise!
Prentices (jumping up merrily).
All our days raise and blaze
Pogner's praise!
Pogner's praise!
Vogelgesang.
Who would not now unmarried be!
Sachs.
There's some would give their wives with glee.
Nachtigal.
Come, single man,
Do all ye can.
Do all ye can.
Pogner.
My meaning you must clearly see:
No lifeless gift I offer you:
No lifeless gift I offer you:
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