Shock-headed Peter

Just look at him! there he stands,
With his nasty hair and hands.
See! his nails are never cut;
They are grimed as black as soot;
And the sloven, I declare,
Never once has combed his hair;
Anything to me is sweeter
Than to see Shock-headed Peter.

Heinrich Hoffmann

Heinrich Hoffmann was a German psychiatrist, who also wrote some short works including poetry, for example the well-known children's book "Struwwelpeter". He was born on June 13, 1809, and died on September 20, 1894. Hoffmann wrote under the pseudonym Reimerich Kinderlieb. He became a medical doctor in 1835 and worked as a physician in various cities before settling in Frankfurt. His book "Struwwelpeter," published in 1845, became famous for its moral tales and vivid illustrations.

Heinrich Hoffmann

The Cry-Baby

Heinrich Hoffmann, Simple Poetry

The Story Of The Inky Boys

Heinrich Hoffmann, Simple Poetry

The Story Of Flying Robert

Heinrich Hoffmann, Simple Poetry

The Story Of The Man That Went Out Shooting

Heinrich Hoffmann, Simple Poetry

English

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Cruel Frederick

Here is cruel Frederick, see!
A horrid wicked boy was he;
He caught the flies, poor little things,
And then tore off their tiny wings,
He killed the birds, and broke the chairs,
And threw the kitten down the stairs;
And oh! far worse than all beside,
He whipped his Mary, till she cried.

The trough was full, and faithful Tray
Came out to drink one sultry day;
He wagged his tail, and wet his lip,
When cruel Fred snatched up a whip,
And whipped poor Tray till he was sore,
And kicked and whipped him more and more:
At this, good Tray grew very red,
And growled, and bit him till he bled;
Then you should only have been by,
To see how Fred did scream and cry!

So Frederick had to go to bed:
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Heinrich Hoffmann

Peter, A Pekinese Puppy

Our Peter, who's famed as an eater of things,
Is a miniature dragon without any wings.
He can gallop or trot, he can amble or jog,
But he flies like a flash when he's after his prog;
And the slaves who adore him, whatever his mood,
    Say that nothing is fleeter
    Than Peter the eater,
Than Peter pursuing his food.

He considers the garden his absolute own:
It's the place where a digger can bury a bone.
Then he tests his pin-teeth on a pansy or rose,
Spreading ruin and petals wherever he goes;
And his mistress declares, when he's nibbled for hours,
    That nothing is sweeter
    Than Peter the eater,
The resolute eater of flowers.

Having finished his dinner he wheedles the cook,
Picks a coal from the scuttle or tackles a book,
Or devot...

R. C. Lehmann

Ben Apfelgarten

There was a certain gentleman, Ben Apfelgarten called,
Who lived way off in Germany a many years ago,
And he was very fortunate in being very bald
And so was very happy he was so.
He warbled all the day
Such songs as only they
Who are very, very circumspect and very happy may;
The people wondered why,
As the years went gliding by,
They never heard him once complain or even heave a sigh!

The women of the province fell in love with genial Ben,
Till (may be you can fancy it) the dickens was to pay
Among the callow students and the sober-minded men--
With the women-folk a-cuttin' up that way!
Why, they gave him turbans red
To adorn his hairless head,
And knitted jaunty nightcaps to protect him when abed!
In vain the rest demurred--
Not a single chi...

Eugene Field

Slovenly Betsy

Betsy would never wash herself
When from her bed she rose,
But just as quickly as she could
She hurried on her clothes.
To keep her clothes all nice and clean
Miss Betsy took no pains;
In holes her stockings always were,
Her dresses filled with stains.
Sometimes she went day after day
And never combed her hair,
While little feathers from her bed
Stuck on it here and there.
The schoolboys, when they Betsy saw,
Would point her out, and cry,
"Oh! Betsy, what a sight you are!
Oh! Slovenly Betsy, fie!"

One rainy day her parents went
Some pleasant friends to meet.
They took Betsy along with them,
All dressed so clean and neat.
Nice little boys and girls were there,
With whom our Betsy played,
Until of playing she grew tired,
...

Heinrich Hoffmann

Hugo von Hofmannsthal's Barber

I stand this way on cloudy winter days
From dawn to dusk and I soap heads,
Shave them and powder them and speak
Indifferent words, stupid, foolish.
Most heads are completely shut,
They sleep limply.    And others read again
And look slowly through long lids,
As though they had sucked everything dry.
Still others open the red cracks of their mouths wide
And tell jokes.
For my part, I smile courteously.    Ah, I hide
Deep under these smiles, as though in a coffin,
The terrible, repressed, wise complaints
About the fact that we are forced into this existence,
Jammed in, firmly and inescapably trapped
As though in jail, and we wear chains,
Confusing, hard, that we do not understand.
And the fact that each man is distant and estranged from himself
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Poor Peter

    Blind Peter Piper used to play
    All up and down the city;
    I'd often meet him on my way,
    And throw a coin for pity.
    But all amid his sparkling tones
    His ear was quick as any
    To catch upon the cobble-stones
    The jingle of my penny.

    And as upon a day that shone
    He piped a merry measure:
    "How well you play!" I chanced to say;
    Poor Peter glowed with pleasure.
    You'd think the words of praise I spoke
    Were all the pay he needed;
    The artist in the player woke,
    The penny lay unheeded.

    Now Winter's here; the wind is shrill,
    His coat is thin and tattered;
    Yet hark! he's playing trill on trill
    As if his music mattered.
    And somehow though the city looks
   ...

Robert William Service