The poor drum-major, too, fell in disgrace,
And lost his situation;
In our hotel he took the place
Of boots,—what degradation!
He warms the oven, he scours the pots,
And wood and water fetches;
His grey head wags as he wheezingly trots
Up the stairs, so weak the poor wretch is.
When Fritz comes to see me, he finds himself
Inclined to jeer and rally
The comical lanky poor old elf
And his motions shilly-shally.
O Fritz, a truce to raillery, please!
The sons of Germany never
Should fallen greatness love to tease,
Or to torment endeavour.
Such people you ought to regard with pride
And filial piety rather;
Perchance upon the mother’s side
The old man is your father!
8. DEGENERACY.
Has Nature’s self been going backward,
And human faults assuming, then?
The very plants and beasts, I fancy,
Now lie as much as mortal men.
I trust not in the lily’s chasteness;
The colour’d fop, the butterfly,
Toys with her, kisses, round her flutters,
Till lost is all her purity.
The violet’s modesty moreover
I hold full cheap. The little flower
With the coquettish breezes trifles,
In secret pants for fame and power.
I doubt if Philomel appreciates
The time she sings with pompous mien;
She overdoes it, sobs, and warbles
Methinks from nought but pure routine.