Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry. 1904.
III. WarThe Troopers Death
Georg Herwegh (18171875)T
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.
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!
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!
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!