Children of wisdom,—­remember the word!”

1789.*
-----
Another.

Go! obedient to my call,

Turn to profit thy young days,

  Wiser make betimes thy breast

In Fate’s balance as it sways,

Seldom is the cock at rest;
Thou must either mount, or fall,

Thou must either rule and win,

Or submissively give in,
Triumph, or else yield to clamour: 
Be the anvil or the hammer.

1789.
-----
Vanitas!  VANITATUM vanitas!

My trust in nothing now is placed,

Hurrah! 
So in the world true joy I taste,

Hurrah! 
Then he who would be a comrade of mine
Must rattle his glass, and in chorus combine,
Over these dregs of wine.

I placed my trust in gold and wealth,

Hurrah! 
But then I lost all joy and health,

Lack-a-day! 
Both here and there the money roll’d,
And when I had it here, behold,
From there had fled the gold!

I placed my trust in women next,

Hurrah! 
But there in truth was sorely vex’d,

Lack-a-day! 
The False another portion sought,
The True with tediousness were fraught,
The Best could not be bought.

My trust in travels then I placed,

Hurrah! 
And left my native land in haste.

Lack-a-day! 
But not a single thing seem’d good,
The beds were bad, and strange the food,
And I not understood.

I placed my trust in rank and fame,

Hurrah! 
Another put me straight to shame,

Lack-a-day! 
And as I had been prominent,
All scowl’d upon me as I went,
I found not one content.

I placed my trust in war and fight,

Hurrah! 
We gain’d full many a triumph bright,

Hurrah! 
Into the foeman’s land we cross’d,
We put our friends to equal cost,
And there a leg I lost.

My trust is placed in nothing now,

Hurrah! 
At my command the world must bow,

Hurrah! 
And as we’ve ended feast and strain,
The cup we’ll to the bottom drain;
No dregs must there remain!

1806.
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Fortune of war.

Nought more accursed in war I know

Than getting off scot-free;
Inured to danger, on we go

In constant victory;
We first unpack, then pack again,

With only this reward,
That when we’re marching, we complain,

And when in camp, are bor’d.

The time for billeting comes next,—­

The peasant curses it;
Each nobleman is sorely vex’d,

’Tis hated by the cit. 
Be civil, bad though be thy food,

The clowns politely treat;
If to our hosts we’re ever rude,

Jail-bread we’re forced to eat.

And when the cannons growl around,

And small arms rattle clear,
And trumpet, trot, and drum resound,