Field-Marshal Blücher
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Why are the trumpets blowing? Ye hussars, away!
‘T is the Field-Marshal rideth, with flying fray;
He rideth so joyous his mettlesome steed,
He swingeth so keenly his bright-flashing blade!
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His oath he hath redeemed; when the battle cry rang.
Ha! The old boy! How to saddle he sprang!
It was he who led off the last dance of the ball;
With besom of iron he swept clean the hall!
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At Lützen, on the mead, there he struck such a blow,
That end with the fright stood the hair of the foe,
That thousands ran off with hurrying tread,
Ten thousand slept soundly the peace of the dead!
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At Katzbach, by the stream, he there played his part;
He taught you, O Frenchmen, the swimmer’s good art!
Farewell to you, Frenchmen, away to the waves!
And take, ye sans-culottes, the whales for your graves!
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At Wartburg, on the Elbe, how before him all yielded!
Nor fortress nor castle the Frenchmen shielded;
Again they must spring like hares o’er the field,
And the hero’s hurrah after them pealed.
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At Leipsic, on the mead, – O, honor’s glorious fight!
There he shattered the fortunes of France and her might;
There lie they all safely, since so hardly they fell;
And there the old Blücher played the field-marshal well..
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