Category Archives: Ulrich von Württemberg

Eberhard II, called “der Greiner” Count of Württemberg 1344 –1392.
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Count Eberhard
The Weeper of Württemberg
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Ye !—ye, there, in the world without.
Lift not your heads so grand !
Men hath it borne, and heroes stout.
Alike for peace or battle-rout,—
Our gallant Swabian land !
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Boast of your Edward, Fred’ric, Charles,
And Ludwig as ye might,
Charles, Fred’ric, Ludwig, Edward too,
Was Eberhard, our count so true,—
A tempest in the fight.
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The county’s boy, young Ulrich, too,
Loved well the iron clang ;
The county’s boy, young Ulrich, too,
No footfall backward ever drew,
Where men to saddle sprang.
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The Reutlingers brew’d vengeance-pain
To see our names so bright;
And strove the victor’s wreath to gain,
And many a sword-dance dared maintain.
And drew their girdles tight.
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He gave them war,—beshrew the fight
Whence beaten home he came !
The father’s brow was black as night,—
The youthful warrior fled the light,
And wept for very shame.

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That gall’d him : ” Ah, ye knaves, beware !”
(And kept it in his soul)—
” Now by my father’s beard I swear
To grind the notch my sword doth bear
On many a townsman’s poll !”
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Nor long the time ere rose a feud:
Forth sallied horse and man ;
Toward Döffingen the army stood,
And brighter grew the younker’s mood,
And hot the fight began.
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The watchword to our men that day
Was given—”the ill-starr’d fight”—
That drove us like the storm away,
And lodged us deep in bloody fray,
And in the lances’ night.
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Our youthful Count, with lion’s wrath,
Swung high his hero-glaive ;
Wild battle-roar before his path.
Wailing and groans his feet beneath,
And all around—the grave.
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But woe ! ah, woe ! a ghastly sword
Fell heavy on his head;
The hero-band surround their lord
In vain ; young Ulrich on the sward
With glassy eyes lay dead.

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Then horror stayed the battle’s plan.
Tears from all eyes ‘gan flow;
But ho !—the count to charge began—
“My son is as another man ;
March, children, on the foe !”
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And fiercer rageth now the fight.
For vengeance spurs them well ;
Forth o’er the corpses went their might,
And townsmen flying left and right
O’er forest, hill, and dell.
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And blythely all our clarions rang
When to our camp hied we ;
And wives and children gaily sang,
‘Mid dances’ whirl and beaker-klang,
To praise our victory.
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But Eberhard, what doth he here ?
Before him lies his son ;
Within his tent, no mortal near.
The Count hath dropt one sparkling tear
That silent form upon.

Therefore, with love so true and warm.
Around the Count we stand;
Alone, he is a hero-swarm—
The thunder rageth in his arm,—
The star of Swabian land.
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Then, ye there in the world without.
Lift not your heads so grand !
Men hath it borne, and heroes stout.
Alike in peace and battle-rout.
Our gallant Swabian land.