[Footnote 12: This was first said by Rudolph of Erlach at the Battle of Laupen, in 1339, fought between citizens of Berne and the neighboring lords. The great array of the nobles caused the rear ranks of the Bernese to shrink. "Good!" cried Erlach, "the chaff is separated from the wheat! Cowards will not share the victory of the brave." --Zschokke's _History of Switzerland_, p. 48, Shaw's translation.] Perhaps they all will change their mind, So, brothers, do not waver! Kyrie eleison! Pidi, Pom, Pom, Pom, Alarum beat, There's no retreat; Wilt soon be slashed, Be pierced and gashed: But none of these things heeding, The foe, too, set a-bleeding. Many good surgeons have we here, Again to heal us ready; With God's help, then, be of good cheer, The Pagans grow unsteady: Let not thy courage sink before A foe already flying; Revenge itself shall give thee more, And hearten it, if dying. Drom, Drari, Drom, Kyrie eleison! Strike, thrust,--for we Must victors be; Let none fall out, Keep order stout; Close to my side, Comrade, abide! Be grace of God revealed now, And help us hold the field now! God doth Himself encamp us round, Himself the tight inspiring; The foe no longer stands his ground, On every side retiring; Ye brothers, now set boldly on The hostile ranks!--they waver,-- They break before us and are gone,-- Praise be to God the Saver! Drom, Drari, Drom, Come, brother, come! Drums, make a noise! My troops, rejoice! Help now pursue And thrust and hew; Pillage restrain,-- The spoils remain In reach of every finger, But not a foe wilt linger. Ye bold campaigners, praise the Lord, And strifeful heroes, take now The prize He doth to us accord, Good cheer and pillage make now: What each one finds that let him take, But friendly share your booty, For parents', wives', and children's sake, For household use or beauty. Pidi, Pom, Pom, Pom, Field-surge on come, My gash to bind, Am nearly blind,-- The arrows stick, Out pull them quick,-- A bandage here, To save my ear,-- Come, bind me up, And reach a cup,-- Ho, here at hand, I cannot stand,-- Reach hither what you're drinking, My heart is 'neath me sinking. War-comrades all, heart's-brothers good, I spare no skill and labor, For these your hurts in hero-mood You got from hostile sabre. Now well behave, keep up thy heart, God's help itself will tend thee; Although at present great the smart, To dress the wound will mend thee; Wash off the blood, Time makes it good,-- Reach me the shear,-- A plaster here,-- Hold out your arm, 'T is no great harm,-- Give drink to stay, He limps away: Thank God, their wounds all tended, Be dart- and pike-hole mended!