I.
Shine fair moon-beam, shine but lightly
Through the cloudy height;
Tell me, how do you like Brixen?
Why so mean tonight?
Do not hurry; pause a little;
Don’t go yet to rest,
Let me talk with you a little,
Listen to my quest.
That I am not local, moon-beam,
You know by my speech;
Not a “true and upright” native,
List to what I preach.
II.
I am from a land of music,
Where I played the horn,
And my music, in Vienna,
Woke the masters’ scorn.
And since, when their work was over,
They wanted to rest,
One dark night they sent for me
A carriage with their best.
It was two hours past midnight,
Edging on to three,
When a gendarme at my bedstead
Said “good-day” to me.
And with him the whole ensemble,
A court in full parade,
Gold upon their rigid collars,
’round their waists gold-braid.
“Mister editor, awaken,
Entertain no fear,
Though ’tis night, we are no robbers;
This what brings us here.
