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Translated by C. C. Felton
THE TIDINGS flew from land to land, | |
| At Murten lies Burgund; | |
| And all make haste, for fatherland, | |
| To battle with Burgund. | |
| |
| In the field before a woodland green, | 5 |
| Shouted the squire and knight; | |
| Loud shouted René of Lorraine, | |
| “We ’ll forward to the fight!” | |
| |
| The leaders held but short debate; | |
| Too long it still appeared;— | 10 |
| “Ah, God! when ends the long debate? | |
| Are they perchance afeard? | |
| |
| “Not idle stands in heaven high | |
| The sun in his tent of blue; | |
| We laggards let the hours go by! | 15 |
| When shall we hack and hew?” | |
| |
| Fearfully roared Carl’s cannonade; | |
| We cared not what befell; | |
| We were not in the heat dismayed, | |
| If this or that man fell. | 20 |
| |
| Lightens in circles wide the sword, | |
| Draws back the mighty spear; | |
| Thirsted for blood the good broadsword, | |
| Blood drank the mighty spear. | |
| |
| Short time the foemen bore the fray, | 25 |
| Soldier and champion fled, | |
| And the broad field of battle lay | |
| Knee-deep with spears o’erspread. | |
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| Some in the forest, some the brake, | |
| To hide from the sunlight sought; | 30 |
| Many sprang headlong into the lake, | |
| Although they thirsted not. | |
| |
| Up to the chin they waded in; | |
| Like ducks swam here and there; | |
| As they a flock of ducks had been, | 35 |
| We shot them in the mere. | |
| |
| After them on the lake we sail, | |
| With oars we smote them dead, | |
| And piteously we heard them wail; | |
| The green lake turned to red. | 40 |
| |
| Up on the trees clomb many high, | |
| We shot them there like crows; | |
| Their feathers helped them not to fly, | |
| No wind to waft them blows. | |
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| The battle raged two leagues around, | 45 |
| And many foemen lay | |
| All hacked and hewed upon the ground, | |
| When sunset closed the day; | |
| And they who yet alive were found | |
| Thanks to the night did pay. | 50 |
| |
| A camp like any market-place | |
| Fell to the Switzer’s hand; | |
| Carl made the beggars rich apace | |
| In needy Switzerland. | |
| |
| The game of chess is a kingly play;— | 55 |
| ’T is a Leaguer now that tries; | |
| He took from the king his pawns away; | |
| His flank unguarded lies. | |
| |
| His castles were of little use, | |
| His knights were in a strait; | 60 |
| Turn him whatever way he choose, | |
| There threatens him checkmate. | |
| |
| Veit Weber had his hand on sword, | |
| Who did this rhyme indite: | |
| Till evening mowed he with the sword; | 65 |
| He sang the stour at night. | |
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| He swung the bow, he swung the sword, | |
| Fiddler and fighter true, | |
| Champion of lady and of lord, | |
Dancer and prelate too.
Amen. | 70 |
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