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_. When we, as we rush to the strangling fight, Send home to our true loves a long "Good night," Thou canst hie thee where love is sold, And buy thy pleasure with paltry gold. _Chorus_. When lance and bullet come whistling by, And death in a thousand shapes draws nigh, Thou canst sit at thy cards, and kill King, queen, and knave, with thy spadille. _Chorus_. If on the red field our bell should toll, Then welcome be death to the patriot's soul. Thy pampered flesh shall quake at its doom, And crawl in silk to a hopeless tomb. A pitiful exit thine shall be; No German maid shall weep for thee, No German song shall they sing for thee, No German goblets shall ring for thee. Forth in the van, Man for man, Swing the battle-sword who can! * * * * * LÜTZOW'S WILD BAND[12] (1813) What gleams through the woods in the morning sun? Hear it nearer and nearer draw! It winds in and out in columns dun, And the trumpet-notes on the roused winds run, And they startle the soul with awe. Should you of the comrades black demand-- That is Lützow's wild and untamed band. What passes swift through the darksome glade, And roves o'er the mountains all? It crouches in nightly ambuscade; The hurrah breaks round the foe dismayed, And the Frankish sergeants fall. Should you of the rangers black demand-- That is Lützow's wild and audacious band. Where the vineyards flourish, there roars the Rhine; There the tyrant thought him secure; Then by thunder-crash and lightning-shine In the waters plunges the fighting line; Of the hostile bank makes sure. Should you of the swimmers black demand-- That is Lützow's wild and foolhardy band. There down in the valley what clamorous fight! What clangor of bloody swords! Fierce-hearted horsemen wage the fight, And the spark of freedom's at last alight, Flaming red the heavens towards. Should you of the horsemen black demand-- That is Lützow's wild and intrepid band. Who with death-rattle there bid the day farewell 'Mid the moans of prostrate foes? Of the hand of death the drawn features tell, Yet the dauntless hearts triumphant swell, For his Fatherland's safe each knows! Should you of the black-clad fallen demand-- That is Lützow's wild and invincible band.