told on Groth, that the poetry of the Scotch poet
has inspired and inspirited the poet of Schleswig-Holstein, is not to be
denied. But to imitate Burns, and to imitate him successfully, is no mean
achievement, and Groth would be the last man to disown his master. The
poem "Min Jehann" might have been written by Burns. I shall give a free
metrical translation of it, but should advise the reader to try to spell
out the original; for much of its charm lies in its native form, and to
turn Groth even into High-German destroys his beauty as much as when Burns
is translated into English.

MIN JEHANN.

Ik wull, wi weern noch kleen, Jehann,
Do weer de Welt so grot!
We seten op den Steen, Jehann,
Weest noch? by Nawers Sot.
An Heben sell de stille Maan,
Wi segen, wa he leep,
Un snacken, wa de Himmel hoch,
Un wa de Sot wul deep.

Weest noch, wa still dat weer, Jehann?
Dar roehr keen Blatt an Bom.
So is dat nu ni mehr, Jehann,
As hoechstens noch in Drom.
Och ne, wenn do de Scheper sung--
Alleen in't wide Feld:
Ni wahr, Jehann? dat weer en Ton--
De eenzige op de Welt.

Mituenner inne Schummerntid
Denn ward mi so to Mod,
Denn loeppt mi't langs den Ruegg so hitt,
As domals bi den Sot.
Den dreih ik mi so hasti um,
As weer ik nich alleen:
Doch Allens, wat ik finn, Jehann,
Dat is--ik stah un ween.

MY JOHN.

I wish we still were little, John,
The world was then so wide!
When on the stone by neighbor's bourn
We rested side by side.
We saw the moon in silver veiled
Sail silent through the sky;
Our thoughts were deeper than the bourn,
And as the heavens high.

You know how still it was then, John;
All nature seemed at rest;
So is it now no longer, John,
Or in our dreams at best!
Think when the shepherd boy then sang
Alone o'er all the plain,
Aye, John, you know, that was a sound
We ne'er shall hear again.

Sometimes now, John, the eventides
The self-same feelings bring,
My pulses beat as loud and strong
As then beside the spring.
And then I turn affrighted round,
Some stranger to descry;
But nothing can I see, my John,--
I am alone and cry.

The next poem is a little popular ballad, relating to a tradition, very
common on the northern coast of Germany, both east and west of the
peninsula, of islands swallowed by the sea, their spires, pinnacles, and
roofs being on certain days still visible