Sunday Facepalm: No Pink Knuckles! » « The Healing Arts: Anxiety, Frustration, Repressed Hostility. Dance Of Death: Peasant and Painter. Click for full size. The Painter is a self portrait of Hess. Text translations in comments. Share this:TweetShare on TumblrPocketMoreEmailPrintLike this:Like Loading... Related Sunday Facepalm: No Pink Knuckles! » « The Healing Arts: Anxiety, Frustration, Repressed Hostility.
Todt zum Bawren:
Du hast g’habt dem Tag Arbeit groß,
Früh und spathe ohn unterloß,
Dein Bürde wil ich dir abheben,
Korb, Flegel, Dägen thu mir geben.
Death to The Peasant:
You have had great daily work,
early and late without cease.
Your burden I will take from you.
Give me basket, flail and sword.
O Grimmer Todt gib mir mein Hut,
Mein Arbeit mir nicht mehr weh thut,
Die ich mein Tag je hab gethan,
Was zeihst mich armen alten Mann.
Oh ugly Death, give me my hat.
My work doesn’t pain me anymore,
the [work] that I have done every day.
Why are you dragging me poor, old man?
Todt zum Maler:
Hieronymus Hess, laß Malen stohn,
Wir wöllen auch jetztmals darvon:
Dein Kunst, Müh, Arbeit hilfft dich nit,
Wann es geht dir wie ander Leut:
Hastu schon grewlich g’macht mein Leib,
Wirst auch so g’stalt mit Kind und Weib:
Hab Gott vor Augen allezeit,
Wirff Bensel hin sampt dem Richtscheit.
Death to the Painter:
HIeronymus Hess, let the painting stand;
We will also away from here now.
Your art, trouble and work doesn’t help you,
because it will happen to you like the others.
Even if you have portrayed me terribly,
you will soon have the same shape -- with child and wife.
Always keep God in sight,
throw the brush away, and also the straight edge.
Mein Gott du wöllest bey mir stohn,
Dieweil ich auch muß jetzt darvon:
Mein Seel befehl ich in dein Händ,
Wann die Stund kompt zu meinem End:
Und der Todt mir mein Seel außtreibt.
Verhoff doch mein Gedächtnuß bleibt,
So lang man diß Werck haltet schon:
Behüt euch Gott ich fahr darvon.
My God, would you please stand by me,
since I must also away from here now.
My soul I commend in your hands
when the hour comes for my end,
and Death drives out my soul.
Yet I hope the memory of me will stay,
as long as people are fond of this work.
God save you, I’m traveling away.
The peasant had a sword? I think their definition of peasant must be different from the usual English one, as English peasants weren’t allowed weapons.
Well it depends when we are talking about, they were expected to be competent archers for several centuries so they could be levied in case of war.
I thought that was unusual too, unless the peasant had taken part in a war at some point. Personally, I’d be more worried about that flail.
Oh I would too, and various other farm implements like pitch forks and scythes, but if I remember my history lesssons correctly it was as much about status as if was about denying the peasantry the means to revolt. Along the lines of how much fur trimming different ranks were allowed to wear, which fabrics and so on.