THE STORM is out; the land is roused; | |
| Where is the coward who sits well housed? | |
| Fie on thee, boy, disguised in curls, | |
| Behind the stove, ’mong gluttons and girls! | |
| A graceless, worthless wight thou must be; | 5 |
| No German maid desires thee, | |
| No German song inspires thee, | |
| No German Rhine-wine fires thee. | |
| Forth in the van, | |
| Man by man, | 10 |
| Swing the battle-sword who can! | |
| |
| When we stand watching, the livelong night, | |
| Through piping storms, till morning light, | |
| Thou to thy downy bed canst creep, | |
And there in dreams of rapture sleep.
A graceless, worthless wight, etc. | 15 |
| |
| When, hoarse and shrill, the trumpet’s blast, | |
| Like the thunder of God, makes our heart beat fast, | |
| Thou in the theatre lov’st to appear, | |
Where trills and quavers tickle the ear.
A graceless, worthless wight, etc. | |
| |
| When the glare of noonday scorches the brain, | 20 |
| When our parchèd lips seek water in vain, | |
| Thou canst make champagne corks fly | |
At the groaning tables of luxury.
A graceless, worthless wight, etc. | |
| |
| When we, as we rush to the strangling fight, | |
| Send home to our true-loves a long “Good-night,” | 25 |
| Thou canst hie thee where love is sold, | |
And buy thy pleasure with paltry gold.
A graceless, worthless wight, etc. | |
| |
| When lance and bullet come whistling by, | |
| And death in a thousand shapes draws nigh, | |
| Thou canst sit at thy cards, and kill | 30 |
King, queen, and knave with thy spadille.
A graceless, worthless wight, etc. | |
| |
| 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. | 35 |
| 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, | 40 |
| Man for man, | |
| Swing the battle-sword who can! | |
| |
