THE STIRRUP-CUP[49] (1840)

GEORG HERWEGH

  THE STIRRUP-CUP[49] (1840)

  The anxious night is gone at last,

  Silent and mute we gallop past

    And ride to our destiny.

  How keen the morning breezes blow!

  Hostess, one glass more ere we go,

    We go to die!

  Thou soft young grass, why now so green?

  Soon like the rose shall be thy sheen,

    My blood thee red shall dye.

  The first quick sip with sword in hand

  I drink, a toast to our native land,

    For our native land to die.

  Now for the next, the time is short,

  The next to Freedom, the queen we court,--

    The fiery cup drain dry!

  These dregs--to whom shall we dedicate?

  To thee, Imperial German State,

    For the German State to die!

  My sweetheart!--But there's no more wine--

  The bullets whistle, the lance heads shine--

    To her the glass where the fragments lie!

  Up! Like a whirlwind into the fray!

  O horseman's joy, at the break of day,

    At the break of day to die!