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| Danny Kaye in HCA's mahogany bed, 22 July 1952 |
En Paraplui det er et luftigt Væsen
1839
En Paraplui det er et luftigt Væsen,
Som oftest har den otte lange Been;
Den tidt af Silke er, hvo ei er kræsen,
Af Nankin, Cambridge og kan have een.
Den hører næsten til Fornødenheder.
Den conservere skal vor Pynt og Stads;
Sin Eier mangen Plage den bereder,
Jeg har for den havt mangen artig Spas.
Engang jeg gik paa Østergade
Med splinter-funkelnye Paraplui;
Jeg havde kjøbt den i den franske lade
Hos Herr Nabrin, der har saa svært et Rye.
Det regned snart; jeg lod mig dog ei skrække,
Jeg Fjenden bød et vandtæt Silkeskjold;
Men Blæsten var vel haard, den vilde trække
Det lette Væsen bort, den lede Trold!
Da jeg til Hjørnet kom af Hallandsaasen,
Vinden opad et forsvarligt Træk.
Ei hjalp, hvordan jeg dirigered Kaasen
Regnafleder havde alt en Læk.
Den franske Stads jeg altsaa maatte bære
Med brukne Been og Arme til Nabrin:
Den hele Stads var mig en kostbar Lære:
At fine Pynt er stundom og trop fin.
En anden Gang jeg nær fik banket Ryggen
Fordi jeg Hatten stødte af en Mand;
Men raske Been, beskyttede af Lykken,
Hjalp velbeholden mig fra Farens Rand.
Jeg glemt har mange, mange Parapluier.
Snart her, snart der, fik sjeldent dem igjen;
En slem Geschichte er det Vei’r med Byger,
Er Regnen standset, let man glemmer den.
Som oftest saa uheldigt traf det gjerne,
At jeg i Solskin slæbte paa mit Skrog,
Og naar det mig mod Regnen skulde skjærme,
Stod det sædvanligt hjemme i en Krog.
Jeg ogsaa lidt tidt har laant et saadant Meubel
Ud til en eller anden gammel Ven,
Men kan man troe det, skjøndt det ei var Pøbel,
Kom Parapluien sjældent hjem igjen.
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Nok sagt om denne store Landeplage,
Min sidste troer jeg blev i Bellevue;
Jeg aldrig mere vil i mine Dage
Bortkaste Penge til en Paraplui!
A man’s umbrella is an airy creature
1839
A man’s umbrella is an airy creature
Which normally has eight ribs round a shaft.
It’s made of silk, or, if it must be cheaper,
Of Nankeen or of Cambric fore and aft.
It’s almost one of life’s basic essentials.
Its task our fuss and feathers to preserve;
To plague its owner’s its best-known credential,
Though I’ve had lots of fun with such a curse.
While walking in East Street on one occasion
With my umbrella, perfectly brand-new;
I’d bought it at the French store which I knew,
At Herr Nabrin’s, of spotless reputation.
Soon rain came on, but I remained unworried,
My foe with waterproof shield could control;
There was a stiff wind though which would have hurried
The lightweight creature off – the wicked troll!
But then I rounded Halland Ridge’s corner,
Upwind, which was a clever move to seek,
In vain my flighty craft sought a safe harbour –
The rain-deflector now had sprung a leak.
This French adornment I now had to hasten
With broken arms and legs to Herr Nabrin:
From this I gained a valuable lesson:
A like fate can befall all those who preen.
Another time I almost got a beating
For knocking off a man’s hat without cause:
Good fortune though, and my adroit retreating,
Meant I escaped unscathed from danger’s jaws.
Umbrellas – I mislay them altogether.
Both here and there, they’re seldom seen again;
A sorry story is our showery weather,
Once it has ceased, one soon forgets the rain.
Quite often fate will often treat me meanly:
In sunshine I my carcass lug around,
And when against the rain it’s meant to screen me
In some nook back at home it’s to be found.
I have a bit too often lent a brolly
To somebody or other, or a friend.
Though honest folk, it’s proved to be a folly –
I seldom ever got it back again.
To say no more of this curse I’ll endeavour,
The last in Bellevue could soon be trash;
From now on I will definitely never
On an umbrella waste my precious cash!
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