HE storm is out; the land is roused;
Where is the coward who sits well-housed?
Fie, on thee, boy, disguised in curls,
Behind the stove, 'mong gluttons and girls!
A graceless, worthless wight thou must be;
No German maid desires thee,
No German song inspires thee.
No German Rhine-wine fires thee.
Forth in the van,
Man by man,
Swing the battle-sword who can!
When we stand watching, the livelong night,
Through piping storms, till morning light,
Thou to thy downy bed canst creep,
And there in dreams of rapture sleep.
Chorus.
When, hoarse and shrill, the trumpet's blast,
Like the thunder of God, makes our hearts beat fast,
Thou in the theatre lov'st to appear,
Where trills and quavers tickle the ear.
Chorus.
When the glare of noonday scorches the brain,
When our parched lips seek water in vain,
Thou canst make the champagne corks fly.
At the groaning tables of luxury.
Chorus.
- ↑ Translator: C. T. Brooks.
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