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The prisoner's song.
Translated into English by Joseph Massaad
When my grandmother Lisa bewitched one day,
The mob would have burnt her quite happily;
And though the judge tried hard, he found no way:
Her crime she refused to confess steadily.
The mob would have burnt her quite happily;
And though the judge tried hard, he found no way:
Her crime she refused to confess steadily.
And when they threw her in the caldron,
" It's bloody murder! " did she cry,
Then some black smoke rose and was gone,
And as a raven she did fly.
My little black-feathered grandmother dear,
Oh! come visit me in my dungeon,
Fly through the gratings and come to me here,
And bring cheese and cake for my luncheon.
My little black-feathered grandmother dear,
Oh! protect me from more suffering,
For my aunt will pick my eyes out, I fear,
Tomorrow, while I on the gallows swing.
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Morphine may be the most depressing poem ever written.
Gut ist der Schlaf, der Tod ist besser – freilich Das beste wäre, nie geboren sein.