s round him.

To the Netherlands they would lend us now--
Cuirassiers, Yagers, and Shooters away,
Eight thousand in all must march, they say.

SUTLER-WOMAN.
What! What! again the old wandering way--
I got back from Flanders but yesterday!

SECOND CUIRASSIER (to the Dragoons).
You of Butler's corps must tramp with the rest.

FIRST CUIRASSIER.
And we, the Walloons, must doubtless be gone.

SUTLER-WOMAN.
Why, of all our squadrons these are the best.

FIRST CUIRASSIER.
To march where that Milanese fellow leads on.

FIRST YAGER.
The infant? that's queer enough in its way.

SECOND YAGER.
The priest--then, egad! there's the devil to pay.

FIRST CUIRASSIER.
Shall we then leave the Friedlander's train,
Who so nobly his soldiers doth entertain--
And drag to the field with this fellow from Spain!
A niggard whom we in our souls disdain!
That'll never go down--I'm off, I swear.

TRUMPETER.
Why, what the devil should we do there?
We sold our blood to the emperor--ne'er
For this Spanish red hat a drop we'll spare!

SECOND YAGER.
On the Friedlander's word and credit alone
We ranged ourselves in the trooper line,
And, but for our love to Wallenstein,
Ferdinand ne'er had our service known.

FIRST DRAGOON.
Was it not Friedland that formed our force?
His fortune shall still be the star of our course.

SERGEANT.
Silence, good comrades, to me give ear--
Talking does little to help us here.
Much farther in this I can see than you all,
And a trap has been laid in which we're to fall;

FIRST YAGER.
List to the order-book! hush--be still!

SERGEANT.
But first, Cousin Gustel, I pray thee fill
A glass of Melneck, as my stomach's but weak
When I've tossed it off, my mind I'll speak.

SUTLER-WOMAN.
Take it, good sergeant. I quake for fear--
Think you that mischief is hidden here?

SERGEANT.
Look ye, my friends, 'tis fit and clear
That each should consider what's most near.
But as the general says, say I,
One should always the whole of a case descry.
We call ourselves all the Friedlander's troops;
The burgher, on whom we're billeted, stoops
Our wants to supply, and cooks our soups.
His ox, or his horse, the peasant must chain
To our baggage-car, and may grumble in vain.
Just let a lance-corp'ral, with seven good men,
Tow'rd a village from far but come within ken,
You're sure he'll be prince of the place, and may
Cut what capers he will, with unquestioned sway.
Why, zounds! lads, they heartily hate us all--