PRINCE EUGENE, our noble leader, | |
| Made a vow in death to bleed, or | |
| Win the emperor back Belgrade: | |
| “Launch pontoons, let all be ready | |
| To bear our ordnance safe and steady | 5 |
| Over the Danube”—thus he said. | |
| |
| There was mustering on the border | |
| When our bridge in marching order | |
| Breasted first the roaring stream; | |
| Then at Semlin, vengeance breathing, | 10 |
| We encamped to scourge the heathen | |
| Back to Mahound, and fame redeem. | |
| |
| ’Twas on August one-and-twenty, | |
| Scouts and glorious tidings plenty | |
| Galloped in, through storm and rain; | 15 |
| Turks, they swore, three hundred thousand | |
| Marched to give our prince a rouse, and | |
| Dared us forth to battle-plain. | |
| |
| Then at Prince Eugene’s headquarters | |
| Met our fine old fighting Tartars | 20 |
| Generals and field marshals all; | |
| Every point of war debated, | |
| Each in his turn the signal waited, | |
| Forth to march and on to fall. | |
| |
| For the onslaught all were eager | 25 |
| When the word sped round our leaguer: | |
| “Soon as the clock chimes twelve to-night | |
| Then, hold hearts, sound boot and saddle, | |
| Stand to your arms, and on to battle, | |
| Every one that has hands to fight!” | 30 |
| |
| Musqueteers, horse, yagers, forming, | |
| Sword in hand each bosom warming, | |
| Still as death we all advance; | |
| Each prepared, come blows or booty, | |
| German-like to do our duty, | 35 |
| Joining hands in the gallant dance. | |
| |
| Our cannoneers, those tough old heroes, | |
| Struck a lusty peal to cheer us, | |
| Firing ordnance great and small; | |
| Right and left our cannon thundered, | 40 |
| Till the pagans quaked, and wondered, | |
| And by platoons began to fall. | |
| |
| On the right, like a lion angered, | |
| Bold Eugene cheered on the vanguard; | |
| Ludovic spurred up and down, | 45 |
| Crying, “On, boys; every hand to’t; | |
| Brother Germans nobly stand to’t; | |
| Charge them home, for our old renown!” | |
| |
| Gallant prince! he spoke no more; he | |
| Fell in early youth and glory, | 50 |
| Struck from his horse by some curst ball: | |
| Great Eugene long sorrowed o’er him, | |
| For a brother’s love he bore him; | |
| Every soldier mourned his fall. | |
| |
| In Waradin we laid his ashes; | 55 |
| Cannon peals and musket flashes | |
| O’er his grave due honors paid: | |
| Then, the old black eagle flying, | |
| All the pagan powers defying, | |
| On we marched and stormed Belgrade. | 60 |
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