They're born Bohemian knaves – the two —
Belonging to Terzky's carabineers,
Who've lain in these quarters now for years;
The worst are they of the worthless crew.
Strutting, swaggering, proud and vain,
They seem to think they may well disdain
With the peasant a glass of his wine to drain
But, soft – to the left o' the fire I see
Three riflemen, who from the Tyrol should be
Emmerick, come, boy, to them will we.
Birds of this feather 'tis luck to find,
Whose trim's so spruce, and their purse well lined.
[They move towards the tent.
SCENE II
The above – Sergeant-Major, Trumpeter, Hulan.
TRUMPETER
What would the boor? Out, rascal, away!
PEASANT
Some victuals and drink, worthy masters, I pray,
For not a warm morsel we've tasted to day.
TRUMPETER
Ay, guzzle and guttle – 'tis always the way.
HULAN (with a glass)
Not broken your fast! there – drink, ye hound!
He leads the peasant to the tent – the others come forward.
SERGEANT (to the Trumpeter)
Think ye they've done it without good ground?
Is it likely they double our pay to-day,
Merely that we may be jolly and gay?
TRUMPETER
Why, the duchess arrives to-day, we know,
And her daughter too —
SERGEANT
Tush! that's mere show —
'Tis the troops collected from other lands
Who here at Pilsen have joined our bands —
We must do the best we can t' allure 'em,
With plentiful rations, and thus secure 'em.
Where such abundant fare they find,
A closer league with us to bind.
TRUMPETER
Yes! – there's something in the wind.
SERGEANT
The generals and commanders too —
TRUMPETER
A rather ominous sight, 'tis true.
SERGEANT
Who're met together so thickly here —
TRUMPETER
Have plenty of work on their hands, that's clear.
SERGEANT
The whispering and sending to and fro —
TRUMPETER
Ay! Ay!
SERGEANT
The big-wig from Vienna, I trow,
Who since yesterday's seen to prowl about
In his golden chain of office there —
Something's at the bottom of this, I'll swear.
TRUMPETER
A bloodhound is he beyond a doubt,
By whom the duke's to be hunted out.
SERGEANT