Friedrich Schiller - Wallenstein's Camp

Croat, where stole you that necklace, say?
Get rid of it man – for thee 'tis unmeet:
Come, take these pistols in change, I pray.

Nay, nay, Master Shooter, you're trying to cheat.

Then I'll give you this fine blue cap as well,
A lottery prize which just I've won:
Look at the cut of it – quite the swell!

But this is of pearls and of garnets bright,
See, how it plays in the sunny light!

Well, I'll give you to boot, my own canteen —
I'm in love with this bauble's beautiful sheen.

See, now! – how cleanly the Croat is done
Snacks! Master Shooter, and mum's the word.

I think your cap is a smartish one.

'Tis a regular swop, as these gents have heard.

How is this I pray, brother carabineer?
Shall we longer stay here, our fingers warming,
While the foe in the field around is swarming?

Art thou, indeed, in such hasty fret?
Why the roads, as I think, are scarce passable yet.

For me they are not – I'm snug enough here —
But a courier's come, our wits to waken
With the precious news that Ratisbon's taken.

Ha! then we soon shall have work in hand.

Indeed! to protect the Bavarian's land,
Who hates the duke, as we understand,
We won't put ourselves in a violent sweat.

Heyday! – you'll find you're a wiseacre yet.

See! see!
Here meet we a jovial company!

Who can these greencoats be, I wonder,
That strut so gay and sprucely yonder!

They're the Yagers of Holk – and the lace they wear,
I'll be sworn, was ne'er purchased at Leipzig fair.

Welcome, good sirs!

Zounds, how now?
Gustel of Blasewitz here, I vow!

The same in sooth – and you I know,
Are the lanky Peter of Itzeho:
Who at Glueckstadt once, in revelling night,
With the wags of our regiment, put to flight
All his father's shiners – then crowned the fun —

By changing his pen for a rifle-gun.

We're old acquaintance, then, 'tis clear.

And to think we should meet in Bohemia here!

Oh, here to-day – to-morrow yonder —
As the rude war-broom, in restless trace,
Scatters and sweeps us from place to place.
Meanwhile I've been doomed far round to wander.

So one would think, by the look of your face.

Up the country I've rambled to Temsewar,
Whither I went with the baggage-car,
When Mansfeld before us we chased away;
With the duke near Stralsund next we lay,
Where trade went all to pot, I may say.
I jogged with the succors to Mantua;
And back again came, under Feria:
Then, joining a Spanish regiment,
I took a short cut across to Ghent;
And now to Bohemia I'm come to get
Old scores paid off, that are standing yet,
If a helping hand by the duke be lent —
And yonder you see my sutler's tent.

Well, all things seem in a flourishing way,
But what have you done with the Scotchman, say,
Who once in the camp was your constant flame?

A villain, who tricked me clean, that same
He bolted, and took to himself whate'er
I'd managed to scrape together, or spare,
Leaving me naught but the urchin there.

Mother, is it my papa you name?

Well, the emperor now must father this elf,
For the army must ever recruit itself.

Forth to the school, ye rogue – d'ye hear?

He, too, of a narrow room has fear.
SERVANT GIRL (entering).
Aunt, they'll be off.

I come apace.

What gypsy is that with the roguish face?

My sister's child from the south, is she.

Ay, ay, a sweet little niece – I see.
SECOND YAGER (holding the girl).
Softly, my pretty one! stay with me.

The customers wait, sir, and I must go.

That maiden's a dainty morsel, I trow!
And her aunt – by heaven! I mind me well, —
When the best of the regiment loved her so,
To blows for her beautiful face they fell.
What different folks one's doomed to know!
How time glows off with a ceaseless flow!
And what sights as yet we may live to see!

Your health, good sirs, may we be free,
A seat beside you here to take?

We thank ye – and room will gladly make.
To Bohemia welcome.

Snug enough here!
In the land of the foe our quarters were queer.

You haven't the look on't – you're spruce to view.

Ay, faith, on the Saal, and in Meissen, too,
Your praises are heard from the lips of few.

Tush, man! why, what the plague d'ye mean?
The Croat had swept the fields so clean,
There was little or nothing for us to glean.