Wenn nich de Pohl daar twischen weer
Vun Kiel bet Illinois,
So wuss ik noch een 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 maal höörn un sehn,
Wa’ man in ’t Westen plattdüütsch 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!

Waar fröher nachts bi Foss un Uul
Een eensaam Jäger sleep;
Waar sunst dat wille Kriegsgehuul
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,

Daar röppt uns ole Moderspraak
Nu Dusende tosaam’n;
To’n lustig, hartlich plattdüütsch Snack
Süht Illinois se kaam’n.

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

Ja, sunnerbaar un wunnerbaar!
Segg an: Wer harr dat dacht?
Wer ’t seggt harr noch vœr dörtig Jahr,
Den harr man luud 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 düütschen Lann’n,
Daar schaamt man sik vœr’t Platt,
Dat is bet dicht vœr’t Ünnergahn,
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 School:
Dat weer so groff, so roog,
Pass höögstens in’e Kœk bi d’n Kohl
Un achter Putt un Ploog.

“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 aver, de vun Huus un Kluus’
De Noot drev’, dat Geschick,
De, de der gahn 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 Heimaat foort,
Weg œver’t wiede Meer:
Höör de maal daar een plattdüütsch Woord –
Mein Gott! wa’ trock em ’t döör!

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 Nachdigaal,
Em lepen gliek in Ogenblik
De hellen Traan’n hendaal.

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’n un sung’n op’t Nie
Den lang vergäten Klang:
fœr 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 höör’n den Heimaatstoon herut,
As warr Reveille blaast.
De keem dat an, as reep dat luud:
So, Jungs! Un nu holdt 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 Moderspraak
To Dusende bi een
To’n hartli’ Snack un düchti’ Saak:
To’n Plattdüütschen 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 düütsche Aart
In ’t nieje Vaderland,
Um optofrischen maal 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 aver hier to Huus’,
Wi spört ok ut de Feern
Den Wedderklang as Heimaatgruuß
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 Telefoon,
Jüm Hurrah, bet an ’t Hart,
Ik föhl dat as den höögsten Lohn,
De Dichters baden wardt.

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 gifft ’n Echo. Ja, dat röppt
– Waar fœr ik strev’ un waak –
All wat bi uns in Dusel slöppt:
Holdt fast an Aard un Spraak!

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 sœben Foot as ik –
Mit plattdütsch Hart un lange Been’n,
Versteiht sik, un mi liek.

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

Un nu mien Spruch, de heet: Holdt fast
An plattdütsch Spraak un Aard!
Un fœr dat Fest: dat ’t blöht un wasst
Un jümmer schöner wardt!

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