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.

Category:
Civilisation, Poetry
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