Diskussion:Pidder Lüng

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Strophe 6, Zeile 4: und ob du sie wünschst, ist uns einerlei [2. Pers. Sg. : w-ü-n-sch-s-t; das wichtige "s" fehlt; bitte korrigieren!]

Meine Adresse: Prof. Dr. Martin Selge, Unteres Dorf 33, 73457 Essingen, e-mail: kum-selge@t-online.de

Mit freundlichem Gruß Martin Selge 19. Februar 2008

Wir richten uns strikt nach der Scanvorlage. Da es sich um einen offensichtlichen Rechtschreibfehler in der Vorlage handelt, habe ich das entsprechend angemerkt. --Balû Diskussion 17:54, 19. Feb. 2008 (CET)

Und verkriegt sich hinter des Eisernen Rücken. ist auch ein Schreibfehler im Original? --95.118.165.4 09:12, 17. Mär. 2015 (CET)

Ja. Auch hier per Anmerkung korrigiert. (Referenzausgabe: Benno von Wiese: Detlev von Liliencron. Werke, Bd. 1. Insel Verlag, Frankfurt am Main: 1977, S. 153-155: verkriecht. Danke für Hinweis. --Maasikaru (Diskussion) 13:38, 22. Mär. 2015 (CET)

Übersetzung ins Englische[Bearbeiten]

Selbst verfasst. Wenn jemand meint, daß man dies dem Wikipedia/Wikisource-Projekt zur Verfügung stellen möchte (und eine Idee hat, wie), sei es der Menschheit geschenkt. 2.247.241.74 23:47, 22. Mai 2019 (CEST)

The magistrate of Tondern, Henning Pogwisch,
beats with his fist on the oaken table:
Today I will sail over to Sylt myself,
and with my own hand take debts and arrears.
And if I cannot get the fishermen's dues,
they shall render noses and ears,
and I scoff at their word:
Better dead than slave.

In the ship's front the knight, well armored,
leans on his long sword.
Behind him, of high clergy,
stands Jürgen, the priest, eager, ready.
He is rubbing his hands with glee, he stoops his neck.
I'll help authorities to seize the disobedient,
into the dirt with the word:
Better dead than slave.

Towards Hörnum the gaudy bark turns its bow,
followed by lighters, of warriors full.
And the keels are grating on the sand,
and the knight, the priest leap on land,
and rattling their arms behind the two,
the sellswords draw blades from their scabbards.
Now it counts, Frisians:
Better dead than slave.

The minions surround the first house,
Pidder Lüng looks out of the window, astonished.
The knight, the priest enter alone
over the meagre door sill.
Long Peter's numerous kin
are sitting over their paltry supper.
Now reveal yourself, Pidder:
Better dead than slave.

The knight bows in gloating mockery
the priest wants to commence his sermon.
The knight sneeringly takes off his helmet,
and bows again: You'll allow
that we disturb your meal,
swiftly bring in the tithe you have forgotten,
and filth is your saying:
Better dead than slave.

Pidder is stretching, stands like a tree:
Henning Pogwisch, curb your tongue.
We have always been exempt from taxes,
and we don't care if you want them.
Leave with your starvelings,
do you hear my dogs barking?
And the word stands:
Better dead than slave!

Riffraff, the magistrate snarls at him,
the armored man's forehead veins pulsing:
You won't guzzle down your cabbage
until your money lies here in a heap.
The priest hisses stubbornness and bending,
and cowers behind the iron man's back.
O word, don't perish:
Better dead than slave!

Pidder Lüng stares at the magistrate like crazy,
more and more furious the tyrant becomes,
and spits into the steaming cabbage:
No go to your trough, you pig.
And to end the awkward hour, he wants
to turn to his men, outside.
Muffled, it sounds from inside:
Better dead than slave!

A single leap has Pidder made,
he drags to the pot the magistrate,
and dunks in his head, does not release him,
until the knight is choked in boiling broth.
The fists then rest from terrible doing,
he screams, doors and windows trembling,
the proudest word:
Better dead than slave!

The priest lies unconscious at his feet.
the hounds storm in with hellish greet,
pierce the fisher and drag him away.
In the dunes, in the village knife and murder are rushing,
yet Pidder Lüng, before they finally waste him,
calls once more, living, dying,
his master word:
Better dead than slave!