We might begin with the cantata--then perhaps the
people will come.
WAGONMAKER. I can't understand why the burgomaster isn't here? He
always treated us to brandy other years.
SHOEMAKER. If you start the song he'll wake up, if he has overslept
himself. Tune up, gentlemen--do, mi, sol, do!
WAGONMAKER. Then, I'll begin--but watch out for the trio so as to
make it a regular ear-splitting ensemble!
[Solo Recitative.]
Hail to thee, Burgomaster!
Hail to thee, benefactor!
Life burns our deeds within its envious fire,
But mem'ry, like a phoenix from the pyre,
Rises on stalwart wing to waft them higher.
SHOEMAKER. Well whistled, Wagonmaker! Any signs of the grog yet?
WAGONMAKER. Go on, Shoemaker! Now comes the aria; it must be
rendered with feeling. Then you shall see that the burgomaster will
wake up!
SHOEMAKER. [Sings aria.]
ARIA.
The breath of the rose and carnation-bud's fragrance, 'mongst
wonder-flowers' fated!
As false at heart
As glitter-wave,
She held toward him her billowy hair,
Where all the ocean's freshness breathes.
And lily so red and lily so white
Confidingly muse on death and life.
CHIROPODIST. That was a rare strophe! But it doesn't seem to have
any special bearing upon the subject and our present conditions.
Where did you get it?
SHOEMAKER. Well, you see, I have an apprentice at home who is one
of your idealists; he does things of this sort when he's free, on
Sundays.
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