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FORTUNE OF WAR. - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Goethe’s Works, vol. 1 (Poems) [1885]

Edition used:

Goethe’s Works, illustrated by the best German artists, 5 vols. (Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1885). Vol. 1.

Part of: Goethe’s Works, 5 vols.

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FORTUNE OF WAR.

    • NOUGHT more accurs’d in war I know
    • Than getting off scot-free;
    • Inur’d to danger, on we go
    • In constant victory;
    • We first unpack, then pack again,
    • With only this reward,
    • That when we’re marching, we complain,
    • And when in camp, are bor’d.
    • The time for billeting comes next,—
    • The peasant curses it;
    • Each nobleman is sorely vex’d,
    • ’Tis hated by the cit.
    • Be civil, bad though be thy food,
    • The clowns politely treat;
    • If to our hosts we’re ever rude,
    • Jail-bread we’re forc’d to eat.
    • And when the cannons growl around,
    • And small arms rattle clear,
    • And trumpet, trot, and drum resound,
    • We merry all appear;
    • And as it in the fight may chance,
    • We yield, then charge amain,
    • And now retire, and now advance,
    • And yet a cross ne’er gain.
    • At length there comes a musket-ball,
    • And hits the leg, please Heaven;
    • And then our troubles vanish all,
    • For to the town we’re driven,
    • (Well cover’d by the victor’s force,)
    • Where we in wrath first came,—
    • The women, frighten’d then, of course,
    • Are loving now and tame.
    • Cellar and heart are open’d wide,
    • The cook’s allow’d no rest;
    • While beds with softest down suppli’d
    • Are by our members press’d.
    • The nimble lads upon us wait,
    • No sleep the hostess takes;
    • Her shift is torn in pieces straight,—
    • What wondrous lint it makes!
    • If one has tended carefully
    • The hero’s wounded limb,
    • Her neighbor cannot rest, for she
    • Has also tended him.
    • A third arrives in equal haste,
    • At length they all are there,
    • And in the middle he is plac’d
    • Of the whole band so fair!
    • On good authority the king
    • Hears how we love the fight,
    • And bids them cross and ribbon bring,
    • Our coat and breast to dight.
    • Say if a better fate can e’er
    • A son of Mars pursue!
    • ’Midst tears at length we go from there,
    • Belov’d and honor’d too.
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