Wallenstein's Camp. Friedrich von Schiller

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        Yes! – there's something in the wind.

        The generals and commanders too —

        A rather ominous sight, 'tis true.

        Who're met together so thickly here —

        Have plenty of work on their hands, that's clear.

        The whispering and sending to and fro —

        Ay! Ay!

        The big-wig from Vienna, I trow,

        Who since yesterday's seen to prowl about

        In his golden chain of office there —

        Something's at the bottom of this, I'll swear.

        A bloodhound is he beyond a doubt,

        By whom the duke's to be hunted out.

        Mark ye well, man! – they doubt us now,

        And they fear the duke's mysterious brow;

        He hath clomb too high for them, and fain

        Would they beat him down from his perch again.

        But we will hold him still on high —

        That all would think as you and I!

        Our regiment, and the other four

        Which Terzky leads – the bravest corps

        Throughout the camp, are the General's own,

        And have been trained to the trade by himself alone

        The officers hold their command of him,

        And are all his own, or for life or limb.

        Croat, where stole you that necklace, say?

        Get rid of it man – for thee 'tis unmeet:

        Come, take these pistols in change, I pray.

        Nay, nay, Master Shooter, you're trying to cheat.

        Then I'll give you this fine blue cap as well,

        A lottery prize which just I've won:

        Look at the cut of it – quite the swell!

        But this is of pearls and of garnets bright,

        See, how it plays in the sunny light!

        Well, I'll give you to boot, my own canteen —

        I'm in love with this bauble's beautiful sheen.

        See, now! – how cleanly the Croat is done

        Snacks! Master Shooter, and mum's the word.

        I think your cap is a smartish one.

        'Tis a regular swop, as these gents have heard.

        How is this I pray, brother carabineer?

        Shall we longer stay here, our fingers warming,

        While the foe in the field around is swarming?

        Art thou, indeed, in such hasty fret?

        Why the roads, as I think, are scarce passable yet.

        For me they are not – I'm snug enough here —

        But a courier's come, our wits to waken

        With the precious news that Ratisbon's taken.

        Ha! then we soon shall have work in hand.

        Indeed! to protect the Bavarian's land,

        Who hates the duke, as we understand,

        We won't put ourselves in a violent sweat.

        Heyday! – you'll find you're a wiseacre yet.

                   See! see!

        Here meet we a jovial company!

        Who can these greencoats be, I wonder,

        That strut so gay and sprucely yonder!

        They're the Yagers of Holk – and the lace they wear,

        I'll be sworn, was ne'er purchased at Leipzig fair.

        Welcome, good sirs!

                  Zounds, how now?

        Gustel of Blasewitz here, I vow!

        The same in sooth – and you I know,

        Are the lanky Peter of Itzeho:

        Who at Glueckstadt once, in revelling night,

        With the wags of our regiment, put to flight

        All his father's shiners – then crowned the fun —

        By changing his pen for a rifle-gun.

        We're old acquaintance, then, 'tis clear.

        And to think we should meet in Bohemia here!

        Oh, here to-day – to-morrow yonder —

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