'Tis from heaven his jovial lot has birth;
Nor needs he to strive or toil.
The peasant may grope in the bowels of earth,
And for treasure may greedily moil
He digs and he delves through life for the pelf,
And digs till he grubs out a grave for himself.
CHORUS.
He digs and he delves through life for the pelf,
And digs till he grubs out a grave for himself.
FIRST YAGER.
The rider and lightning steed—a pair
Of terrible guests, I ween!
From the bridal-hall, as the torches glare,
Unbidden they join the scene;
Nor gold, nor wooing, his passion prove;
By storm he carries the prize of love!
CHORUS.
Nor gold, nor wooing, his passion prove;
By storm he carries the prize of love!
SECOND CUIRASSIER.
Why mourns the wench with so sorrowful face?
Away, girl, the soldier must go!
No spot on the earth is his resting-place;
And your true love he never can know.
Still onward driven by fate's rude wind,
He nowhere may leave his peace behind.