Read Ebook: The Atlantic Monthly Volume 10 No. 57 July 1862 A Magazine of Literature Art and Politics by Various

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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.

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.

Von Kleist studied law at K?nigsberg, 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 K?nersdorf, 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.

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!--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, 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 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, 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-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!

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.

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