While we, when the shouts of the battle swell,
Think of our loved one's last farewell,
Thou, with thy worthless gold, may'st try
To win what gold may never buy.
Shame on the sordid love thou hast planned!
A German maid shall kiss thee not,
A German song rejoice thee not,
And German wine shall warm thee not!
He who has strength to wield a brand,
Let him draw it now for his father-land!
When the lances are shivering, and the balls are flying,
And the dead are strewn beside the dying;
When the sight is true, and the blow is hard,
Thou may'st he watching the turn of a card.
But shame such coward game has planned!
A German maid shall kiss thee not,
A German song rejoice thee not,
And German wine shall warm thee not!
He who has strength to wield a brand,
Let him draw it now for his father-land!
Breathe we in battle our latest breath,
Welcome the soldier's comrade—Death!
But thou, 'neath thy silken coverlid creeping,
Shalt tremble lest Death approach thee sleeping,
Thou shalt die a pale, dishonoured slave!
No German maid shall weep thy grave,
No German song* shall sing thy fame,
No German cup shall pledge thy name!
He who has strength to wield a brand,
Let him draw it now for his father-land!
L. E. L.
* Literally, "Fie upon thee, boy, in the oven"
* In the original, "besing:"—what a pity that we so
little use a mode of expression equally simple and
forcible!
[I can scarcely call the above translation—they are only an attempt to versify some literal prose versions; and I frankly confess I despair of communicating my own enjoyments to my readers.]
