Wenn nich de Pohl dartwischen weer
Vun Kiel bet Illinois,
So wuß ik noch en Minschen mehr,
De na Chicago reis’.

Were not that pond there in the way
From Kiel to Illinois,
I’d know another person that
Would go to Chicago.

Denn sä ik: Gau den Kuffer packt!
Ik mutt mal hörn un sehn,
Wa man int Westen plattdütsch snackt,
Günt bi de groten Seen!

I’d say—Quick! Let me pack my things!
I’ve got to hear and see
How they speak Platt out in the West,
Out there by the Great Lakes!

Wo fröher nachts bi Voß un Ul
En eensam Jäger sleep;
Wo sunst dat wille Kriegsgehul
De Minschen schreck un reep:

Where hunters used to sleep by night
With fox and owl about,
Where earlier wild battle cries
Were heard and frightened folks,

Dar röppt uns ole Modersprak
Nu Dusende tosam;
Ton lustig, hartlich plattdütsch Snack
Süt Illinois se kam’.

That’s where our dear, old native tongue
Invites thousands to go
To gather for Low German chats
Out there in Illinois.

Ja, sunnerbar un wunnerbar!
Segg an: Wer harr dat dacht?
Wer’t seggt harr noch vær dörtig Jahr,
Den harr man lud belacht.

Yes, it is weird and marvelous!
Tell me—who could have known?
Three decades back folks would have laughed
Had one suggested this.

Den harr man seggt: In dütschen Lann,
Dar schamt man sik vært Platt,
Dat is bet dicht vært Ünnergan,
Keen Buur – he hett dat satt.

They would have said, “In German lands
They are ashamed of Platt.
It’s near extinction, given up
By all but country folks.”

De Kinner lehrt al in de Schol:
Dat weer so grof, so rog,
Paß höchstens in’e Kæk bi’n Kohl
Un achter Putt un Plog.

“They teach as early as in school
That it’s so coarse, so rough—
At best it goes with cooking kale,
With pots and plows and stuff.”

De awer, de vun Hus un Klus
De Not drev, dat Geschick,
De, de der gan un wannern muß
Un söken na dat Glück,

But those that had to leave their homes,
Driven by want, by fate,
Those that were forced to emigrate
To try their luck elsewhere,

Ut Vaderland un Heimat fort,
Weg æwert wide Meer:
Hör de mal dar en plattdütsch Wort –
Mein Gott! wa trock em’t dær.

Away from native land and kin,
Across the ocean wide:
When there they hear Low German words—
My God! How stunned they are!

So herrli klung em keen Musik
Un sung keen Nachdigal,
Em lepen gliek in Ogenblik
De hellen Thran hendal.

No music sounds as sweet to them
Nor does a nightingale.
At any moment sparkling tears
Might trickle down their cheeks.

Un as wi keem’ un sungn op’t nie
Den lang vergeten Klang:
Vær de weer’t mehr as Melodie,
As Dichtung un Gesang.

And when we came and sang anew
The long forgotten sound,
For them it was more than a tune,
Than poetry and song.

De hörn den Heimatston herut,
As war Reveille blast.
De keem dat an, as reep dat lud:
So Jungs! Un nu holt fast!

They soon sensed the familiar tone,
Like reveille the sound.
For them it seemed like a loud cry:
“There, boys! And now hold fast!”

De reep uns ole Modersprak
To Dusende bieen
Ton hartli Snack un düchti Sak:
Ton Plattdütschen Vereen.

Our native tongue invited them,
Thousands of them to meet
For friendly chats and fair pursuits:
To join Low German clubs,

Um fast to holn an dütsche Art
Int nie Vaderland,
Um optofrischen mal dat Hart,
To starken Kopp un Hand.

To hold on to their German ways
In that new land of theirs,
To restore vigor to their hearts,
To strengthen head and hand.

Wi Sängers awer hier to Hus,
Wi spört ok ut de Feern
Den Wedderklang as Heimatgruß
Mit Stolt un banni geern.

But we, the minstrels here back home,
Are sensing from afar
The resonance, like fond salutes,
With pride and with delight.

Uns klingt dat as per Telephon,
Jüm Hurrah, bet an’t Hart,
Ik föhl dat as den höchsten Lohn,
De Dichters baden ward.

They do reach us, as if by phone,
Their cheers, touching our hearts.
I feel that is the best reward
A poet can receive.

Dat gift en Echo. Ja dat röppt
– Wovær ik strev un wak –
All wat bi uns in Dusel slöppt:
Holt fast an Art un Sprak!

There is an echo. Yes, it calls
(For what I strive and wake)
All those back home, all half asleep,
“Hold on to ways and tongue!”

Un kann ik nich, as ik wul much,
Mit fiern dar jüm Fest,
So schick ik jüm en Gruß un Spruch,
Min hartlichst un min best,

Though I can not, as I would like,
Join them to celebrate,
At least I’ll send them my regards,
My wishes and my love,

Vellich ok mal min öllsten Sæn,
– Vun sæben Fot as ik –
Mit plattdütsch Hart un lange Been,
Versteit sik, un mi lik.

Perhaps even my oldest son,
(A tall fellow like me)
With lowlands heart and with long legs,
Resembling me, of course.

Un nu min Spruch, de heet: Holt fast
An plattdütsch Sprak un Art!
Un vær dat fest: dat’t blöht un waßt
Un jümmer schöner ward!

And here’s what I say: “Keep up
Low German ways and tongue!
Maintain it that it blooms and thrives
And grows more beautiful!”