Classic Poem

The weary night is o'er at last!
We ride so still, we ride so fast!
We ride where Death is lying.
The morning wind doth coldly pass,
Landlord! we'll take another glass,
Ere dying.

Thou, springing grass, that art so green,
Shall soon be rosy red, I ween,
My blood the hue supplying!
I drink the first glass, sword in hand,
To him who for the Fatherland
Lies dying!

Now quickly comes the second draught,
And that shall be to freedom quaffed
While freedom's foes are flying!
The rest, O land, our hope and faith!
We'd drink to thee with latest breath,
Though dying!

My darling!--ah, the glass is out!
The bullets ring, the riders shout--
No time for wine or sighing!
There! bring my love the shattered glass--
Charge! On the foe! no joys surpass
Such dying!

From the German of GEORG HERWEGH.