The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 10, No. 57, July, 1862. Various

should wait till twelve was sounded

      At the middle of the night;

      Mounting then upon their horses,

      For a skirmish with the forces,

      Go in earnest at the fight.

      Straightway all to horseback getting,

      Weapons handy, forth were setting

      Silently from the redoubt:

      Musketeers, dragooners also,

      Bravely fought and made them fall so,—

      Led them such a dance about.

      And our cannoneers advancing

      Furnished music for the dancing,

      With their pieces great and small;

      Great and small upon them playing,

      Heathen were averse to staying,

      Ran, and did not stay at all.

      Prince Eugenius on the right wing

      Like a lion did his fighting,

      So he did field-marshal's part:

      Prince Ludwig rode from one to th' other,

      Cried, "Keep firm, each German brother,

      Hurt the foe with all your heart!"

      Prince Ludwig, struck by bullet leaden,

      With his youthful life did redden,

      And his soul did then resign:

      Badly Prince Eugene wept o'er him,

      For the love he always bore him,—

      Had him brought to Peterwardein.

      The music is peculiar,—one flat, 3/4 time,—a very rare measure, and giving plenty of opportunity for a quaint camp-style of singing.

      The other song appeared during Frederic's Silesian War. It contains some choice reminiscences of his favorite rhetoric.

      Fridericus Rex, our master and king,

      His soldiers altogether to the field would bring,

      Battalions two hundred, and a thousand squadrons clear,

      And cartridges sixty to every grenadier.

      "Cursed fellows, ye!"—his Majesty began,—

      "For me stand in battle, each man to man;

      Silesia and County Glatz to me they will not grant,

      Nor the hundred millions either which I want.

      "The Empress and the French have gone to be allied,

      And the Roman kingdom has revolted from my side,

      And the Russians are bringing into Prussia war;—

      Up, let us show them that we Prussians are!

      "My General Schwerin, and Field-Marshal Von Keith,

      And Von Ziethen, Major-General, are ready for a fight;

      Turban-spitting Element! Cross and Lightning get

      Who has not found Fritz and his soldiers out yet!

      "Now adieu, Louisa!13—Louisa, dry your eyes!

      There's not a soldier's life for every ball that flies;

      For if all the bullets singly hit their men,

      Where could our Majesties get soldiers then?

      "Now the hole a musket-bullet makes is small,—

      'T is a larger hole made by a cannon-ball;

      But the bullets all are of iron and of lead,

      And many a bullet goes for many overhead.

      "'T is a right heavy calibre to our artillery,

      And never goes a Prussian over to the enemy,

      For 't is cursed bad money that the Swedes have to pay;

      Is there any better coin of the Austrian?—who can say?

      "The French are paid off in pomade by their king,

      But each week in pennies we get our reckoning;

      Sacrament of Cross and Lightning! Turbans, spit away!

      Who draws so promptly as the Prussian his pay?"

      With a laurel-wreath adorned, Fridericus my King,

      If you had only oftener permitted plundering,

      Fredericus Rex, king and hero of the fight,

      We would drive the Devil for thee out of sight!

      Among the songs which the military ardor of this period stimulated, the best are those by Gleim, (1719-1803) called "Songs of a Prussian Grenadier." All the literary men, Lessing not excepted, were seized with the Prussian enthusiasm; the pen ravaged the domain of sentiment to collect trophies for Father Friedrich. The desolation it produced in the attempt to write the word Glory could be matched only by the sword. But Gleim was a man of spirit and considerable power. The shock of Frederic's military successes made him suddenly drop the pen with which he had been inditing Anacreontics, and weak, rhymeless Horatian moods. His grenadier-songs, though often meagre and inflated, and marked with the literary vices of the time, do still account for the great fame which they acquired, as they went marching with the finest army that Europe ever saw. Here is a specimen:—

VICTORY-SONG AFTER THE BATTLE NEAR PRAGUE

      Victoria! with us is God;

      There lies the haughty foe!

      He falls, for righteous is our God;

      Victoria! he lies low.

      'T is true our father14 is no more,

      Yet hero-like be went,

      And now the conquering host looks o'er

      From high and starry tent.

      The noble man, he led the way

      For God and Fatherland,

      And scarce was his old head so gray

      As valiant his hand.

      With fire of youth and hero-craft

      A banner snatching, he

      Held it aloft upon its shaft

      For all of us to see;

      And said,—"My children, now attack,—

      Take each redoubt and gun!"

      And swifter than the lightning track

      We followed, every one.

      Alas, the flag that led the strife

      Falls with him ere we win!

      It was a glorious end of life:

      O fortunate Schwerin!

      And when thy Frederic saw thee low,

      From out his sobbing breath

      His orders hurled us on the foe

      In vengeance for thy death.

      Thou, Henry,15 wert a soldier true,

      Thou foughtest royally!

      From deed to deed our glances flew,

      Thou lion-youth, with thee!

      A Prussian heart with valor quick,

      Right Christian was his mood:

      Red grew his sword, and flowing thick

      His steps with Pandourt16-blood.

      Full

13

His queen

14

Marshal Schwerin, seventy years of age, who was killed at the head of a regiment, with its colors in his hand, just as it crossed through the fire to the enemy's intrenchments.

15

The King's brother.

16

A corps of foot-soldiers in the Austrian service, eventually incorporated in the army. They were composed of Servians, Croats, etc., inhabitants of the military frontier, and were named originally from the village of Pandúr in Lower Hungary, where probably the first recruits were gathered.