Full thirty years art thou of age, hast many a storm lived through, Brother-like hast round me tightened, And whenever cannons lightened, Both of us no terror knew. Wet soaking to the skin we lay for many a blessed night, Thou alone hast warmth imparted, And if I was heavy-hearted, Telling thee would make me light. My secrets thou hast never spoke, wert ever still and true; Every tatter did befriend me, Therefore I'll no longer mend thee, Lest, old chap, 't would make thee new. And dearer still art thou to ma when jests about thee roll; For where the rags below are dropping, There went through the bullets popping,-- Every bullet makes a hole. And when the final bullet comes to stop a German heart, Then, old cloak, a grave provide me, Weather-beaten friend, still hide me, As I sleep in thee apart. There lie we till the roll-call together in the grave: For the roll I shall be heedful, Therefore it will then be needful For me an old cloak to have. The next one is taken from a student-song book, and was probably written in 1814:-- THE CANTEEN. Just help me, Lottie, as I spring; My arm is feeble, see,-- I still must have it in a sling; Be softly now with me! But do not let the canteen slip,-- Here, take it first, I pray,-- For when that's broken from my lip, All joys will flow away. "And why for that so anxious?--pshaw! It is not worth a pin: The common glass, the bit of straw, And not a drop within!" No matter, Lottie, take it out,-- 'T is past your reckoning: Yes, look it round and round about,-- There drank from it--my King! By Leipsic near, if you must know,-- 'T was just no children's play,-- A ball hit me a grievous blow, And in the crowd I lay; Nigh death, they bore me from the scene, My garments off they fling, Yet held I fast by my canteen,-- There drank from it--my King! For once our ranks in passing through He paused,--we saw his face; Around us keen the volleys flew, He calmly kept his place. He thirsted,--I could see it plain, And courage took to bring My old canteen for him to drain,-- He drank from it--my King! He touched me on the shoulder here, And said, "I thank thee, friend, Thy liquor gives me timely cheer,-- Thou didst right well intend." O'erjoyed at this, I cried aloud, "O comrades, who can bring Canteen like this to make him proud?-- There drank from it--my King!" That old canteen shall no one have, The best of treasures mine; Put it at last upon my grave, And under it this line: "He fought at Leipsic, whom this green Is softly covering; Best household good was his canteen,-- There drank from it--his King!" And finally, a song for all the campaigns of life:-- Morning-red! morning-red! Lightest me towards the dead! Soon the trumpets will be blowing, Then from life must I be going, I, and comrades many a one.