TRUMPETER.
You haven't the look on't—you're spruce to view.
SERGEANT.
Ay, faith, on the Saal, and in Meissen, too,
Your praises are heard from the lips of few.
SECOND YAGER.
Tush, man! why, what the plague d'ye mean?
The Croat had swept the fields so clean,
There was little or nothing for us to glean.
TRUMPETER.
Yet your pointed collar is clean and sightly,
And, then, your hose that sit so tightly!
Your linen so fine, with the hat and feather,
Make a show of smartness altogether!
(To Sergeant.)
That fortune should upon younkers shine—
While nothing in your way comes, or mine.
SERGEANT.
But then we're the Friedlander's regiment
And, thus, may honor and homage claim.
FIRST YAGER.
For us, now, that's no great compliment,
We, also, bear the Friedlander's name.
SERGEANT.
True—you form part of the general mass.
FIRST YAGER.
And you, I suppose, are a separate class!
The difference lies in the coats we wear,
And I have no wish to change with you there.
SERGEANT.
Sir Yager, I can't but with pity melt,
When I think how much among boors you've dwelt.
The clever knack and the proper tone,
Are caught by the general's side alone.
FIRST YAGER.
Then the lesson is wofully thrown away,—
How he hawks and spits, indeed, I may say
You've copied and caught in the cleverest way;
But his spirit, his genius—oh, these I ween,
On your guard parade are but seldom seen.