I, the Duke, from Brunswick hail,
Have marched lone yet never sail
In emotions sought; thus I cease;
Then comes my being hence at peace.
A bayonet I sharpen twice,
Whom no light fails to sap its vice,
May our guns be loaded. Twice.
When time allows is gifted vice;
They felled our French brethren royal,
Now who can sing ought be loyal?
Yet web of ties bears no loose ties,
Silked and perfect, no end in sight,
I go a task wherewith I signed,
That city’s mixéd air we find,
This ‘republic’ ye call splendour
Is nothing more than one turned sour.
So this be real as what we’ll teach,
Than see them goad a hollow leech,
Swift they assembl’ I can’t deny,
Our trinkets rouse, including mine!
Shake the muskets with all your will;
One comes more ill when sees the ill,
So shut the feelings, thoughts and fire!
So ere we win: French sons we sire!
We’ll marble place for bricks replace
Venus Temple of Austr’an face,
Lend more wine for one finer night;
She gives us now a bitter light.