"Thank you for reminding me. I have many a knight and varlet here to
pay you off for Laupen, and for the ill turn you did me at Morgarten;
now you must wait here till I am even with you."
Now drew the growling lion his tail in for a
spring:
Then spake the bull unto him, "Wilt have
your reckoning?
Hei! then nearer to us get,
That this green meadow may with blood be
growing wet."
Then they began a-shooting against us in the
grove,
And their long lances toward the pious Federates
move:
Hei! the jest it was not sweet,
With branches from the lofty pines down rattling
at their feet.
The nobles' front was fast, their order deep
and spread;
That vexed the pious mind; a Winkelried he
said,
"Hei! if you will keep from need
My pious wife and child, I'll do a hardy
deed.
"Dear Federates and true, my life I give to
win:
They have their rank too firm, we cannot break
it in:
Hei! a breaking in I'll make.
The while that you my offspring to your protection
take."
Herewith did he an armful of spears nimbly take;
His life had an end, for his friends a lane did make:
Hei! he had a lion's mood,
So manly, stoutly dying for the Four Cantons' good.
And so it was the breaking of the nobles' front began
With hewing and with sticking,--it was God's holy plan:
Hei! if this He had not done,
It would have cost the Federates many an honest one.
The poem proceeds now with chaffing and slaughtering the broken enemy,
enjoining them to run home to their fine ladies with little credit or
comfort, and shouting after them an inventory of the armor and banners
which they leave behind. [7]
[Footnote 7: It is proper to state that an attack has lately been made
in Germany upon the authenticity of the story of Winkelried, on the
ground that it is mentioned in no contemporaneous document or chronicle
which has yet come to light, and that a poem in fifteen verses composed
before this of Halbsuter's does not mention it. Also it is shown that
Halbsuter incorporated the previous poem into his own. It is
furthermore denied that Halbsuter was a citizen of Lucerne. In short,
there was no Winkelried! Perhaps we can afford to "rehabilitate"
villains of every description, but need therefore the heroic be reduced
to _déshabillé_? That we cannot so well afford. We can give up
William Tell's apple as easily as we can the one in Genesis, but
Winkelreid's "sheaf of Austrian spears" is an essential argument
against original sin, being an altogether original act of virtue.]
Veit Weber, a Swiss of Freiburg, also wrote war-verses, but they are
pitched on a lower key. He fought against Charles the Bold, and
described the Battle of Murten, (Morat,) June 22, 1476. His
facetiousness is of the grimmest kind. He exults without poetry. Two or
three verses will be quite sufficient to designate his style and
temper. Of the moment when the Burgundian line breaks, and the rout
commences, he says,--
One hither fled, another there,
With good intent to disappear,
Some hid them in the bushes:
I never saw so great a pinch,--
A crowd that had no thirst to quench
Into the water pushes.
They waded in up to the chin,
Still we our shot kept pouring in,
As if for ducks a-fowling:
In boats we went and struck them dead,
The lake with all their blood was red,--
What begging and what howling!
Up in the trees did many hide,
There hoping not to be espied;
But like the crows we shot them:
The rest on spears did we impale,
Their feathers were of no avail,
The wind would not transport them.
He will not vouch for the number of the killed, but gives it on hearsay
as twenty-six thousand drowned and slain; but he regrets that their
flight was so precipitate as to prevent him from recording a more
refreshing total. He is specially merry over the wealth and luxurious
habits of Charles, alludes to his vapor-baths, etc.:--
His game of chess was to his cost,
Of pawns has he a many lost,
And twice[8] his guard is broken;
His castles help him not a mite,
And see how lonesome stands his knight!
Checkmate's against him spoken.
[Footnote 8: Once, the year before, at Granson.]
The wars of the rich cities with the princes and bishops stimulated a
great many poems that are full of the traits of burgher-life. Seventeen
princes declared war against Nuremberg, and seventy-two cities made a
league with her. The Swiss sent a contingent of eight hundred men. This
war raged with great fierceness, and with almost uninterrupted success
for the knights, till the final battle which took place near Pillerent,
in 1456. A Nuremberg painter, Hans Rosenplül, celebrated this in verses
like Veit Weber's, with equal vigor, but downright prosaic
street-touches. Another poem describes the rout of the Archbishop of
Cologne, who attempted to get possession of the city, in 1444. All
these Low-German poems are full of popular scorn and satire: they do
not hate the nobles so much as laugh at them, and their discomfitures
in the field are the occasion of elaborate ridicule.
The _Lanzknechts_ were foot-soldiers recruited from the roughs of
Germany, and derived their name from the long lance which they
carried;[9] but they were also armed subsequently with the arquebuse.
They were first organized into bodies of regular troops by George
Frundsberg of Mindelheim, a famous German captain, whose castle was
about twenty miles south-west of Augsburg. It was afterwards the centre
of a little principality which Joseph I. created for the Duke of
Marlborough,[10] as a present for the victory of Hochstädt (Blenheim).
Frundsberg was a man of talent and character, one of the best soldiers
of Charles V. He saved the Imperial cause in the campaign of 1522
against the French and Swiss. At Bicocco he beat the famous Swiss
infantry under Arnold of Winkelried, a descendant, doubtless, of one of
the children whom Arnold Struthabn left to the care of his comrades. At
Pavia a decisive charge of his turned the day against Francis I. And on
the march to Rome, his unexpected death so inflamed the
_Lanzknechts_ that the meditated retreat of Bourbon became
impossible, and the city was taken by assault. His favorite mottoes
were, _Kriegsrath mit der That_, "Plan and Action," and _Viel
Feinde, viel Ehre_, "The more foes, the greater honor." He was the
only man who could influence the mercenary lancers, who were as
terrible in peace as in war.
[Footnote 9: It is sometimes spelled _landsknecht_, as if it meant
_country-fellows_, or recruits,--men raised at large. But that was
a popular misapprehension of the word, because some of them were
Suabian bumpkins.]
[Footnote 10: The French soldier-song about Marlborough is known to
every one.]
The _Lanzknecht's_ lance was eighteen feet long: he wore a helmet
and breastplate, and was taught to form suddenly and to preserve an
impenetrable square. Before him all light and heavy cavalry went down,
and that great arm of modern war did not recover from its disgrace and
neglect till the time of Frederic. But his character was very
indifferent: he went foraging when there was no campaign, and in time
of peace prepared for war by systematic billeting and plundering. It
was a matter of economy to get up a war in order to provide employment
for the _Lanzknecht_.
Hans Sachs wrote a very amusing piece in 1558, entitled, "The Devil
won't let Landsknechts come to Hell." Lucifer, being in council one
evening, speaks of the _Lanzknecht_ as a new kind of man; he
describes his refreshing traits of originality, and expresses a desire
to have one. It is agreed that Beelzebub shall repair as a crimp to a
tavern, and lie in wait for this new game. The agent gets behind a
stove, which in Germany would shield from observation even Milton's
Satan, and listens while the _Lanzknechts_ drink. They begin to
tell stories which make his hair stand on end, but they also God-bless
each other so often, at sneezing and hiccupping, that he cannot get a
chance at them. One of them, who had stolen a cock and hung it behind
the stove, asks the landlord to go and fetch the poor devil. Beelzebub,
soundly frightened, beats a hasty retreat, expressing his wonder that
the _Lanzknecht_ should know he was there. He apologizes to
Lucifer for being unable to enrich his cabinet, and assures him that it
would be impossible to live with them; the devils would be eaten out of
house and home, and their bishopric taken from them. Lucifer concludes
on the whole that it is discreet to limit himself to monks, nuns,
lawyers, and the ordinary sinner.
The songs of the _Lanzknecht_ are cheerful, and make little of the
chances of the fight. Fasting and feasting are both welcome; he is as
gay as a Zouave.[11] To be maimed is a slight matter: if he loses an
arm, he bilks the Swiss of a glove; if his leg goes, he can creep, or a
wooden leg will serve his purpose:--
It harms me not a mite,
A wooden stump will make all right;
And when it is no longer good,
Some spital knave shall get the wood.
But if a ball my bosom strikes,
On some wide field I lie,
They'll take me off upon their pikes,--
A grave is always nigh;
Pumerlein Pum,--the drums shall say
Better than any priest,--Good day!
[Footnote 11: Who besings himself thus, in a song from the Solferino
campaign:--
"Quand l'zouzou, coiffé de son fez,
A par hasard queuqu' goutt' sous l'nez,
L'tremblement s'met dans la cambuse;
Mais s'il faut se flanquer des coups,
Il sait rendre atouts pour atouts,
Et gare dessous,
C'est l'zouzou qui s'amuse!
Des coups, des coups, des coups,
C'est l'zouzou qui s'amuse."]
There is a very characteristic piece, without date or name of the
writer, but which, to judge from the German, was written after the time
of Luther. Nothing could better express the feeling of a people who
have been saved by martial and religious enthusiasm, and brought
through all the perils of history. It is the production of some
Meistersinger, who introduced it into a History of Henry the Fowler,
(fought the Huns, 919-935,) that was written by him in the form of a
comedy, and divided into acts. He brings in a minstrel who sings the
song before battle. The last verse, with adapted metre and music, is
now a soldier's song.
Many a righteous cause on earth
To many a battle growing,
Of music God has thought them worth,
A gift of His bestowing.
It came through Jubal into life;
For Lamech's son inventing
The double sounds of drum and fife,
They both became consenting.
For music good
Wakes manly mood,
Intrepid goes
Against our foes.
Calls stoutly, "On!
Fall on! fall on!
Clear field and street
Of hostile feet,
Shoot, thrust them through, and cleave,
Not one against you leave!"
Elias prophecy would make
In thirsty Israel's passion:
"To me a minstrel bring," he spake,
"Who plays in David's fashion."
Soon came on him Jehovah's hand,
In words of help undoubted,--
Great waters flowed the rainless land,
The foe was also routed.
Drom, Druri, Drom,
Pom, Pom, Pom, Pom,
Drumming and fifing good
Make hero-mood;
Prophets upspring,
Poets, too, sing;
Music is life
To peace and strife,--
And men have ever heeded
What chief by them is needed.
In Dorian mood when he would sing,
Timotheus the charmer,
'Tis said the famous lyre would bring
All listeners into armor:
It woke in Alexander rage
For war, and nought would slake it,
Unless he could the world engage,
And his by conquest make it.
Timotheus
Of Miletus
Could strongly sing
To rouse the King
Of Macedon,
Heroic one,
Till, in his ire
And manly fire,
For shield and weapon rising,
He went, the foe chastising.
For what God drives, that ever goes,--
So sang courageous Judith;
No one can such as He oppose;
There prospers what He broodeth.
Who has from God a martial mood,
Through all resistance breaking,
Can prove himself 'gainst heroes good,
On foes a vengeance taking.
Drums, when we droop;
Stand fast, my troop!
Let dart and sabre
The air belabor;
Give them no heed,
But be agreed
That flight be a breach of honor:
Of that be hearty scorner.
Although a part, as haps alway,
Will faintly take to fleeing,
A lion's heart have I to-day
For Kaiser Henry's seeing.
The wheat springs forth, the chaff's behind;[12]
Strike harder, then, and braver;
[Footnote 12: This was first said by Rudolph of Erlach at the Battle of
Laupen, in 1339, fought between citizens of Berne and the neighboring
lords. The great array of the nobles caused the rear ranks of the
Bernese to shrink. "Good!" cried Erlach, "the chaff is separated from
the wheat! Cowards will not share the victory of the brave."
--Zschokke's _History of Switzerland_, p. 48, Shaw's translation.]
Perhaps they all will change their mind,
So, brothers, do not waver!
Kyrie eleison!
Pidi, Pom, Pom, Pom,
Alarum beat,
There's no retreat;
Wilt soon be slashed,
Be pierced and gashed:
But none of these things heeding,
The foe, too, set a-bleeding.
Many good surgeons have we here,
Again to heal us ready;
With God's help, then, be of good cheer,
The Pagans grow unsteady:
Let not thy courage sink before
A foe already flying;
Revenge itself shall give thee more,
And hearten it, if dying.
Drom, Drari, Drom,
Kyrie eleison!
Strike, thrust,--for we
Must victors be;
Let none fall out,
Keep order stout;
Close to my side,
Comrade, abide!
Be grace of God revealed now,
And help us hold the field now!
God doth Himself encamp us round,
Himself the tight inspiring;
The foe no longer stands his ground,
On every side retiring;
Ye brothers, now set boldly on
The hostile ranks!--they waver,--
They break before us and are gone,--
Praise be to God the Saver!
Drom, Drari, Drom,
Come, brother, come!
Drums, make a noise!
My troops, rejoice!
Help now pursue
And thrust and hew;
Pillage restrain,--
The spoils remain
In reach of every finger,
But not a foe wilt linger.
Ye bold campaigners, praise the Lord,
And strifeful heroes, take now
The prize He doth to us accord,
Good cheer and pillage make now:
What each one finds that let him take,
But friendly share your booty,
For parents', wives', and children's sake,
For household use or beauty.
Pidi, Pom, Pom, Pom,
Field-surge on come,
My gash to bind,
Am nearly blind,--
The arrows stick,
Out pull them quick,--
A bandage here,
To save my ear,--
Come, bind me up,
And reach a cup,--
Ho, here at hand,
I cannot stand,--
Reach hither what you're drinking,
My heart is 'neath me sinking.
War-comrades all, heart's-brothers good,
I spare no skill and labor,
For these your hurts in hero-mood
You got from hostile sabre.
Now well behave, keep up thy heart,
God's help itself will tend thee;
Although at present great the smart,
To dress the wound will mend thee;
Wash off the blood,
Time makes it good,--
Reach me the shear,--
A plaster here,--
Hold out your arm,
'T is no great harm,--
Give drink to stay,
He limps away:
Thank God, their wounds all tended,
Be dart- and pike-hole mended!
Three faces does a surgeon wear:
At first God is not higher;
And when with wounds they illy fare,
He comes in angel's tire;
But soon as word is said of pay,
How gracelessly they grieve him!
They bid his odious face away,
Or knavishly deceive him:
No thanks for it
Spoils benefit,
Ill to endure
For drugs that cure;
Pay and respect
Should he collect,
For at his art
Your woes depart;
God bids him speed
To you in need;
Therefore our dues be giving,
God wills us all a living.
No death so blessed in the world
As his who, struck by foeman,
Upon the airy field is hurled,
Nor hears lament of woman;
From narrow beds death one by one
His pale recruits is calling,
But comrades here are not alone,
Like Whitsun blossoms falling.
'T is no ill jest
To say that best
Of ways to die
Is thus to lie
In honor's sleep,
With none to weep:
Marched out of life
By drum and fife
To airy grave,
Thus heroes crave
A worthy fame,--
Men say his name
Is _Fatherland's Befriender_,
By life and blood surrender.
With the introduction of standing armies popular warlike poetry falls
away, and is succeeded by camp-songs, and artistic renderings of
martial subjects by professed poets. The people no longer do the
fighting; they foot the bills and write melancholy hymns. Weckerlin
(1584-1651) wrote some hearty and simple things; among others,
_Frisch auf, ihr tapfere Soldaten_, "Ye soldiers bold, be full of
cheer." Michael Altenburg, (1583-1640,) who served on the Protestant
side, wrote a hymn after the Battle of Leipsic, 1631, from the watch
word, "God with us," which was given to the troops that day. His hymn
was afterwards made famous by Gustavus Adolphus, who sang it at the
head of his soldiers before the Battle of Lützen, November 16, 1632,
in which he fell. Here it is. (_Verzage nicht, du Häuflein
klein_.)
Be not cast down, thou little band,
Although the foe with purpose stand
To make thy ruin sure:
Because they seek thy overthrow,
Thou art right sorrowful and low:
It will not long endure.
Be comforted that God will make
Thy cause His own, and vengeance take,--
'T is His, and let it reign:
He knoweth well His Gideon,
Through him already hath begun
Thee and His Word sustain.
Sure word of God it is to fell
That Satan, world, and gates of hell,
And all their following,
Must come at last to misery:
God is with us,--with God are we,--
He will the victory bring.
Here is certainly a falling off from Luther's _Ein feste Burg_,
but his spirit was in the fight; and the hymn is wonderfully improved
when the great Swedish captain takes it to his death.
Von Kleist (1715-1759) studied law at Königsberg, but later became an
officer in the Prussian service. He wrote, in 1759, an ode to the
Prussian army, was wounded at the Battle of Künersdorf, where Frederic
the Great lost his army and received a ball in his snuff-box. His
poetry is very poor stuff. The weight of the enemy crushes down the
hills and makes the planet tremble; agony and eternal night impend; and
where the Austrian horses drink, the water fails. But his verses were
full of good advice to the soldiers, to spare, in the progress of their
great achievements, the poor peasant who is not their foe, to help his
need, and to leave pillage to Croats and cowards. The advice was less
palatable to Frederic's troops than the verses.
But there were two famous soldier's songs, of unknown origin, the pets
of every camp, which piqued all the poets into writing war-verses as
soon as the genius of Frederic kindled such enthusiasm among
Prussians. The first was an old one about Prince Eugene, who was
another hero, loved in camps, and besung with ardor around every
watchfire. It is a genuine soldier's song.
Prince Eugene, the noble captain,
For the Kaiser would recover
Town and fortress of Belgrade;
So he put a bridge together
To transport his army thither,
And before the town parade.
When the floating bridge was ready,
So that guns and wagons steady
Could pass o'er the Danube stream,
By Semlin a camp collected.
That the Turks might be ejected,
To their great chagrin and shame.
Twenty-first of August was it,
When a spy in stormy weather
Came, and told the Prince and swore
That the Turks they all amounted,
Near, at least, as could be counted,
To three hundred thousand men, or more.
Prince Eugenius never trembled
At the news, but straight assembled
All his generals to know:
Them he carefully instructed
How the troops should be conducted
Smartly to attack the foe.
With the watchword he commanded
They 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!
[Footnote 13: His queen]
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:--