By storm he carries the prize of love!
CHORUS.
Nor gold, nor wooing, his passion prove;
By storm he carries the prize of love!
SECOND CUIRASSIER.
Why mourns the wench with so sorrowful face?
Away, girl, the soldier must go!
No spot on the earth is his resting-place;
And your true love he never can know.
Still onward driven by fate's rude wind,
He nowhere may leave his peace behind.
CHORUS.
Still onward driven by fate's rude wind,
He nowhere may leave his peace behind.
FIRST YAGER.
He takes the two next to him by the hand-the others do the same-and
form a large semi-circle.
Then rouse ye, my comrades-to horse! to horse!
In battle the breast doth swell!
Youth boils-the life-cup foams in its force-
Up! ere time can dew dispel!
And deep be the stake, as the prize is high-
Who life would win, he must dare to die!
CHORUS.
And deep be the stake, as the prize is high-
Who life would win, he must dare to die!
[The curtain falls before the chorus has finished.