Tys was a painter—a doctor then he became,

And said to his friends, who murmured at the same,

“My faults as a painter, sure, every one could see,

But now my errors are underground, the better ’tis for me.”

His man confirms him, “true as you stand here—

But ’twas the longest day of all the year!”

’Twas asked, Which was the longest day?

My farmer friend, who would not stay

Till I had searched the calendar aright,

Said, “Why, sir, ’tis the one that has the shortest night.”

Dirck once was given to language most profane;

I strove to turn him from his evil ways in vain.

After long years I was successful. How?

With this one word: “Tis not the mode in Paris now.”

Ye preach so long, good sir, that we the opening have forgot,

And therefore when ye reach the end, we understand it not.

Pete ran against me in the street one day,

Nor moved aside: “He would not yield the way

To every fool.” “I can—and do!” said I—

Stepped from the path, and let the fool pass by.

Old Father Jan did chide his son because he sleeping lay,

Instead of getting up to work at dawning of the day,

And told him how a certain boor, at daybreak in the field,

Had found his fallow ground a pot of gold did yield.

“Yes, father,” said young Jack, “’twas early, it may be,

But sure the man that lost the gold was earlier than he!”

Jan will take where’er he can,

Out of purse and out of sack,

Out of cupboard, chest or pack,

Out of kettle, pot, and pan,—

Jan’s a very taking man.

The tailor’s shop for highest praise, say I,

With royal courts doth vie;

Best skill boast which of these two can?

There the man makes the clothes; here the clothes make the man.

Dirck went out once to buy a hat, ’tis known,

And sought to pay for it with words alone.

“Nay,” said the mercer, “I’ll not come to that,

To meet you and uncover to my hat!”

How can a miller be a thief?

Methinks the thing were past belief;

What use for gold or gear can find

The man who lives upon the wind?

Peter knows nought, and will know nought;

And has not the old saw forgot—

What a man knows not hurts him not.

“Well, is it ne’er to be?” said Jan;

“I’ve faithfully done all I can:

I’ve served you as a friend,” quo’ he,

“So long in all humility,

And serve you still!” “Tis true,” said she,

“And yet you will not serve for me!”

A knight, a doctor, a new nobleman,

A duke, a count, to make of any man,

Is no great art, and this can princes do.

Would Heaven grant us but some princes, who

Could by authority of ring and seal,

With men of sense provide the commonweal!

“My parents,” Andrew said, “were drowned at sea,

Therefore no vessel, ship, or boat, for me!”

“My father and my mother,” Adrian said,

“Died in their beds: shall I not go to bed?”

Twelve men to try a crime is British use:—

A thief was asked his jury for to choose.

“The twelve apostles—honest men they be.”

Then said a man: “But those we shall not see

Before the day of judgment.” “Gentlemen,

I’ll gladly wait the trial until then.”

Once poor, and kind of heart, thou’rt rich and greedy, Jan!

The touchstone proves the gold, the gold doth prove the man.

I met a kinsman of mine but now,

And asked him where he lived, and how?

“Like any prince,” so said my friend,

“I have enough to eat and drink, and debts without an end.”

Said Jan, twice wedded to a scolding wife,

“Church-going’s the great pleasure of my life;

’Tis strange and sweet to see a man, O rare!

Keep full five hundred women quiet there!”