Wallenstein's Camp. Friedrich von Schiller

Чтение книги онлайн.

        So one would think, by the look of your face.

        Up the country I've rambled to Temsewar,

        Whither I went with the baggage-car,

        When Mansfeld before us we chased away;

        With the duke near Stralsund next we lay,

        Where trade went all to pot, I may say.

        I jogged with the succors to Mantua;

        And back again came, under Feria:

        Then, joining a Spanish regiment,

        I took a short cut across to Ghent;

        And now to Bohemia I'm come to get

        Old scores paid off, that are standing yet,

        If a helping hand by the duke be lent —

        And yonder you see my sutler's tent.

        Well, all things seem in a flourishing way,

        But what have you done with the Scotchman, say,

        Who once in the camp was your constant flame?

        A villain, who tricked me clean, that same

        He bolted, and took to himself whate'er

        I'd managed to scrape together, or spare,

        Leaving me naught but the urchin there.

        Mother, is it my papa you name?

        Well, the emperor now must father this elf,

        For the army must ever recruit itself.

        Forth to the school, ye rogue – d'ye hear?

        He, too, of a narrow room has fear.

        SERVANT GIRL (entering).

        Aunt, they'll be off.

                   I come apace.

        What gypsy is that with the roguish face?

        My sister's child from the south, is she.

        Ay, ay, a sweet little niece – I see.

        SECOND YAGER (holding the girl).

        Softly, my pretty one! stay with me.

        The customers wait, sir, and I must go.

        That maiden's a dainty morsel, I trow!

        And her aunt – by heaven! I mind me well, —

        When the best of the regiment loved her so,

        To blows for her beautiful face they fell.

        What different folks one's doomed to know!

        How time glows off with a ceaseless flow!

        And what sights as yet we may live to see!

        Your health, good sirs, may we be free,

        A seat beside you here to take?

        We thank ye – and room will gladly make.

        To Bohemia welcome.

                   Snug enough here!

        In the land of the foe our quarters were queer.

        You haven't the look on't – you're spruce to view.

        Ay, faith, on the Saal, and in Meissen, too,

        Your praises are heard from the lips of few.

        Tush, man! why, what the plague d'ye mean?

        The Croat had swept the fields so clean,

        There was little or nothing for us to glean.

        Yet your pointed collar is clean and sightly,

        And, then, your hose that sit so tightly!

        Your linen so fine, with the hat and feather,

        Make a show of smartness altogether!

        That fortune should upon younkers shine —

        While nothing in your way comes, or mine.

        But then we're the Friedlander's regiment

        And, thus, may honor and homage claim.

        For us, now, that's no great compliment,

        We, also, bear the Friedlander's name.

        True – you form part of the general mass.

        And you, I suppose, are a separate class!

        The difference lies in the coats we wear,

        And I have no wish to change with you there.

        Sir Yager, I can't but with pity melt,

        When I think how much among boors you've dwelt.

        The clever knack and the proper tone,

        Are caught by the general's side alone.

        Then the lesson is wofully thrown away, —

        How he hawks and spits, indeed, I may say

        You've copied and caught in the cleverest way;

        But his spirit, his genius – oh, these I ween,

        On your guard parade are but seldom seen.

        Why, zounds! ask for us wherever you will,

        Friedland's wild hunt is our title still!

        Never shaming the name, all undaunted we go

        Alike through the field of a friend, or a foe;

        Through the rising stalk, or the yellow corn,

        Well know they the blast of Holk's Yager horn.

        In the flash of an eye, we are far or near,

        Swift as the deluge, or there or here —

        As at midnight dark, when the flames outbreak

        In the silent dwelling where none awake;

        СКАЧАТЬ