Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 10, No. 57, July, 1862

V >> Various >> Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 10, No. 57, July, 1862

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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, coiffe 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 Luetzen, November 16, 1632,
in which he fell. Here it is. (_Verzage nicht, du Haeuflein
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 Koenigsberg, 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 Kuenersdorf, 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:--

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 father[14] 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 Pandourt[16]-blood.

Full seven earth-works did we clear,
The bear-skins broke and fled;
Then, Frederic, went thy grenadier
High over heaps of dead:

Remembered, in the murderous fight,
God, Fatherland, and thee,--
Turned, from the deep and smoky night,
His Frederic to see,

And trembled,--with a flush of fear
His visage mounted high;
He trembled, not that death was near,
But lest thou, too, shouldst die:

Despised the balls like scattered seed,
The cannon's thunder-tone,
Fought fiercely, did a hero's deed,
Till all thy foes had flown.

Now thanks he God for all His might,
And sings, Victoria!
And all the blood from out this fight
Flows to Theresia.

And if she will not stay the plague,
Nor peace to thee concede,
Storm with us, Frederic, first her Prague,
Then, to Vienna lead!

[Footnote 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.]

[Footnote 15: The King's brother.]

[Footnote 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 Pandur in Lower Hungary, where probably
the first recruits were gathered.]

The love which the soldiers had for Frederic survived in the army after
all the veterans of his wars had passed away. It is well preserved in
this camp-song:--

THE INVALIDES AT FATHER FREDERIC'S GRAVE.

Here stump we round upon our crutches, round our Father's grave we go,
And from our eyelids down our grizzled beards the bitter tears will
flow.

'T was long ago, with Frederic living, that we
got our lawful gains:
A meagre ration now they serve us,--life's no
longer worth the pains.

Here stump we round, deserted orphans, and
with tears each other see,--
Are waiting for our marching orders hence,
to be again with thee.

Yes, Father, only could we buy thee, with our
blood, by Heaven, yes,--
We Invalides, forlorn detachment, straight
through death would storming press!

When the German princes issued to their subjects unlimited orders for
Constitutions, to be filled up and presented after the domination of
Napoleon was destroyed, all classes hastened, fervid with hope and
anti-Gallic feeling, to offer their best men for the War of Liberation.
Then the poets took again their rhythm from an air vibrating with the
cannon's pulse. There was Germanic unity for a while, fed upon
expectation and the smoke of successful fields. Most of the songs of
this period have been already translated. Ruckert, in a series of
verses which he called "Sonnets in Armor," gave a fine scholarly
expression to the popular desires. Here is his exultation over the
Battle of Leipsic:--

Can there no song
Roar with a might
Loud as the fight
Leipsic's region along?

Three days and three nights,
No moment of rest,
And not for a jest,
Went thundering the fights.

Three days and three nights
Leipsic Fair kept: Frenchmen who pleasured
There with an iron yardstick were measured,
Bringing the reckoning with them to rights.

Three days and all night
A battue of larks the Leipsicker make;
Every haul a hundred he takes,
A thousand each flight.

Ha! it is good,
Now that the Russian can boast no longer
He alone of us is stronger
To slake his steppes with hostile blood.

Not in the frosty North alone,
But here in Meissen,
Here at Leipsic on the Pleissen,
Can the French be overthrown.

Shallow Pleissen deep is flowing;
Plains upheaving,
The dead receiving,
Seem to mountains for us growing.

They will be our mountains never,
But this fame
Shall be our claim
On the rolls of earth forever.

What all this amounted to, when the German people began to send in
their constitutional _cartes-blanches_, is nicely taken off by
Hoffman von Fallersleben, in this mock war-song, published in 1842:--

_All sing_.

Hark to the beating drum!
See how the people come!
Flag in the van!
We follow, man for man.
Rouse, rouse
From earth and house!
Ye women and children, good night!
Forth we hasten, we hasten to the fight,
With God for our King and Fatherland.

_A night-patrol of 1813 sings_.

O God! and why, and why,
For princes' whim, renown, and might,
To the fight?
For court-flies and other crows,
To blows?
For the nonage of our folk,
Into smoke?
For must-war-meal and class-tax,
To thwacks?
For privilege and censordom--
Hum--
Into battle without winking?
But--I was thinking--

_All sing_.

Hark to the heating drum!
See how the people come!
Flag in the van!
We follow, man for man:
In battle's roar
The time is o'er
To ask for reasons,--hear, the drum
Again is calling,--tum--tum--tum,--
With God for King and Fatherland.

Or to put it in two stanzas of his, written on a visit to the Valhalla,
or Hall of German Worthies, at Regensburg:--

I salute thee, sacred Hall,
Chronicle of German glory!
I salute ye, heroes all
Of the new time and the hoary!

Patriot heroes, from your sleep
Into being could ye pass!
No, a king would rather keep
Patriots in stone and brass.

The Danish sea-songs, like those of the English, are far better than
the land-songs of the soldiers: but here is one with a true and
temperate sentiment, which the present war will readily help us to
appreciate. It is found in a book of Danish popular songs. [17]

[Footnote 17: _Sange til Brug for blandede Selskaber_, samlade af
FREDERIK SCHALDEMOSE. 1816. Songs for Use in Social Meetings, etc.]
(_Herlig er Krigerens Faerd_.)

Good is the soldier's trade,
For envy well made:
The lightning-blade
Over force-men he swingeth;
A loved one shall prize
The honor he bringeth;
Is there a duty?
That's soldier's booty,--
To have it he dies.

True for his king and land
The Northman will stand;
An oath is a band,--
He never can rend it;
The dear coast, 't is right
A son should defend it;
For battle he burneth,
Death's smile he returneth,
And bleeds with delight.

Scars well set off his face,--
Each one is a grace;
His profit they trace,--
No labor shines brighter:
A wreath is the scar
On the brow of a fighter;
His maid thinks him fairer,
His ornament rarer
Than coat with a star.

Reaches the king his hand,
That makes his soul grand,
And fast loyal band
Round his heart it is slinging;
From Fatherland's good
The motion was springing:
His deeds so requited,
Is gratefully lighted
A man's highest mood.

Bravery's holy fire,
Beam nobler and higher,
And light our desire
A path out of madness!
By courage and deed
We conquer peace-gladness:
We suffer for that thing,
We strike but for that thing,
And gladly we bleed.

But our material threatens the space we have at command. Four more
specimens must suffice for the present. They are all favorite
soldier-songs. The first is by Chamisso, known popularly as the author
of "Peter Schlemihl's Shadow," and depicts the mood of a soldier who
has been detailed to assist in a military execution:--

The muffled drums to our marching play.
How distant the spot, and how long the way!
Oh, were I at rest, and the bitterness through!
Methinks it will break my heart in two!

Him only I loved of all below,--
Him only who yet to death must go;
At the rolling music we parade,
And of me too, me, the choice is made!

Once more, and the last, he looks upon
The cheering light of heaven's sun;
But now his eyes they are binding tight:
God grant to him rest and other light!

Nine muskets are lifted to the eye,
Eight bullets have gone whistling by;
They trembled all with comrades' smart,--
But I--I hit him in his heart!

The next is by Von Holtei:--

THE VETERAN TO HIS CLOAK.

Full thirty years art thou of age, hast many a
storm lived through,
Brother-like hast round me tightened,
And whenever cannons lightened,
Both of us no terror knew.

Wet soaking to the skin we lay for many a
blessed night,
Thou alone hast warmth imparted,
And if I was heavy-hearted,
Telling thee would make me light.

My secrets thou hast never spoke, wert ever still and true;
Every tatter did befriend me,
Therefore I'll no longer mend thee,
Lest, old chap, 't would make thee new.

And dearer still art thou to ma when jests about thee roll;
For where the rags below are dropping,
There went through the bullets popping,--
Every bullet makes a hole.

And when the final bullet comes to stop a German heart,
Then, old cloak, a grave provide me,
Weather-beaten friend, still hide me,
As I sleep in thee apart.

There lie we till the roll-call together in the grave:
For the roll I shall be heedful,
Therefore it will then be needful
For me an old cloak to have.

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