LXXVI.
Hussars are blowing their trumpets,
And to thy doors they ride.
A garland of wreathed roses
I bring to thee, my bride.
That were a boisterous household,
Landpests and soldiery!
And in thy little heart, dear,
The goodliest quarters be.
Hussars are blowing their trumpets,
And to thy doors they ride.
A garland of wreathed roses
I bring to thee, my bride.
That were a boisterous household,
Landpests and soldiery!
And in thy little heart, dear,
The goodliest quarters be.