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Translated by Sir Walter Scott
’T WAS when among our linden-trees | |
| The bees had housed in swarms | |
| (And gray-haired peasants say that these | |
| Betoken foreign arms), | |
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| Then looked we down to Willisow, | 5 |
| The land was all in flame; | |
| We knew the Archduke Leopold | |
| With all his army came. | |
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| The Austrian nobles made their vow, | |
| So hot their heart and bold, | 10 |
| “On Switzer carles we ’ll trample now, | |
| And slay both young and old.” | |
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| With clarion loud, and banner proud, | |
| From Zurich on the lake, | |
| In martial pomp and fair array, | 15 |
| Their onward march they make. | |
| |
| “Now list, ye lowland nobles all,— | |
| Ye seek the mountain strand, | |
| Nor wot ye what shall be your lot | |
| In such a dangerous land. | 20 |
| |
| “I rede ye, shrive ye of your sins, | |
| Before ye farther go; | |
| A skirmish in Helvetian hills | |
| May send your souls to woe.” | |
| |
| “But where now shall we find a priest | 25 |
| Our shrift that he may hear?” | |
| “The Switzer priest has ta’en the field, | |
| He deals a penance drear. | |
| |
| “Right heavily upon your head | |
| He ’ll lay his hand of steel; | 30 |
| And with his trusty partisan | |
| Your absolution deal.” | |
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| ’T was on a Monday morning then, | |
| The corn was steeped in dew, | |
| And merry maids had sickles ta’en, | 35 |
| When the host to Sempach drew. | |
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| The stalwart men of fair Lucerne | |
| Together have they joined; | |
| The pith and core of manhood stern, | |
| Was none cast looks behind. | 40 |
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| It was the Lord of Hare-castle, | |
| And to the Duke he said, | |
| “Yon little band of brethren true | |
| Will meet us undismayed.” | |
| |
| “O Hare-castle, thou heart of hare!” | 45 |
| Fierce Oxenstern replied. | |
| “Shalt see then how the game will fare,” | |
| The taunted knight replied. | |
| |
| There was lacing then of helmets bright, | |
| And closing ranks amain; | 50 |
| The peaks they hewed from their boot-points | |
| Might wellnigh load a wain. | |
| |
| And thus they to each other said: | |
| “Yon handful down to hew | |
| Will be no boastful tale to tell, | 55 |
| The peasants are so few.” | |
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| The gallant Swiss Confederates there | |
| They prayed to God aloud, | |
| And he displayed his rainbow fair | |
| Against a swarthy cloud. | 60 |
| |
| Then heart and pulse throbbed more and more | |
| With courage firm and high, | |
| And down the good Confederates bore | |
| On the Austrian chivalry. | |
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| The Austrian lion ’gan to growl, | 65 |
| And toss his mane and tail; | |
| And ball, and shaft, and crossbow bolt | |
| Went whistling forth like hail. | |
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| Lance, pike, and halbert mingled there, | |
| The game was nothing sweet; | 70 |
| The boughs of many a stately tree | |
| Lay shivered at their feet. | |
| |
| The Austrian men-at-arms stood fast, | |
| So close their spears they laid; | |
| It chafed the gallant Winkelried, | 75 |
| Who to his comrades said: | |
| |
| “I have a virtuous wife at home, | |
| A wife and infant son; | |
| I leave them to my country’s care,— | |
| This field shall soon be won. | 80 |
| |
| “These nobles lay their spears right thick, | |
| And keep full firm array, | |
| Yet shall my charge their order break, | |
| And make my brethren way.” | |
| |
| He rushed against the Austrian band, | 85 |
| In desperate career, | |
| And, with his body, breast, and hand, | |
| Bore down each hostile spear. | |
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| Four lances splintered on his crest, | |
| Six shivered in his side; | 90 |
| Still on the serried files he pressed,— | |
| He broke their ranks, and died. | |
| |
| This patriot’s self-devoted deed | |
| First tamed the lion’s mood, | |
| And the four forest cantons freed | 95 |
| From thraldom by his blood. | |
| |
| Right where his charge had made a lane, | |
| His valiant comrades burst, | |
| With sword, and axe, and partisan, | |
| And hack, and stab, and thrust. | 100 |
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| The daunted lion ’gan to whine, | |
| And granted ground amain, | |
| The Mountain Bull he bent his brows, | |
| And gored his sides again. | |
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| Then lost was banner, spear, and shield, | 105 |
| At Sempach in the flight, | |
| The cloister vaults at Konig’s-field | |
| Hold many an Austrian knight. | |
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| It was the Archduke Leopold, | |
| So lordly would he ride, | 110 |
| But he came against the Switzer churls, | |
| And they slew him in his pride. | |
| |
| The heifer said unto the bull: | |
| “And shall I not complain? | |
| There came a foreign nobleman | 115 |
| To milk me on the plain. | |
| |
| “One thrust of thine outrageous horn | |
| Has galled the knight so sore, | |
| That to the churchyard he is borne, | |
| To range our glens no more.” | 120 |
| |
| An Austrian noble left the stour, | |
| And fast the flight ’gan take; | |
| And he arrived in luckless hour | |
| At Sempach on the lake. | |
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| He and his squire a fisher called | 125 |
| (His name was Hans von Rot), | |
| “For love, or meed, or charity, | |
| Receive us in thy boat!” | |
| |
| Their anxious call the fisher heard, | |
| And, glad the meed to win, | 130 |
| His shallop to the shore he steered, | |
| And took the flyers in. | |
| |
| And while against the tide and wind | |
| Hans stoutly rowed his way, | |
| The noble to his follower signed | 135 |
| He should the boatman slay. | |
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| The fisher’s back was to them turned, | |
| The squire his dagger drew, | |
| Hans saw his shadow in the lake, | |
| The boat he overthrew. | 140 |
| |
| He ’whelmed the boat, and as they strove, | |
| He stunned them with his oar, | |
| “Now, drink ye deep, my gentle sirs, | |
| Yon ’ll ne’er stab boatman more. | |
| |
| “Two gilded fishes in the lake | 145 |
| This morning have I caught, | |
| Their silver scales may much avail, | |
| Their carrion flesh is naught.” | |
| |
| It was a messenger of woe | |
| Has sought the Austrian land: | 150 |
| “Ah! gracious lady, evil news! | |
| My lord lies on the strand. | |
| |
| “At Sempach, on the battle-field, | |
| His bloody corpse lies there.” | |
| “Ah, gracious God!” the lady cried, | 155 |
| “What tidings of despair!” | |
| |
| Now would you know the minstrel wight | |
| Who sings of strife so stern, | |
| Albert the Souter is he hight, | |
| A burgher of Lucerne. | 160 |
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| A merry man was he, I wot, | |
| The night he made the lay, | |
| Returning from the bloody spot, | |
| Where God had judged the day. | |
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