Out-skirmishers take up their post;

And bullets speed, and shots whiz by.

The favoured sons of mighty war,

The Swedes, break through the trenches' fire;

The eager horsemen push their way;

Behind them march the men on foot;

Whose firm, unbroken columns give

Support to each bold, forward move.

The field of battle dubious

Is now the scene of noisy din;

And fickle fortune turns her wheel,

And on our arms her first smile throws.

Their troops before our fire retreat,

And in confusion fall away.

Now, Rosen through the defile flees,

And Schliepenbach, the rash, submits.

We press the Swedes from post to post,

The glory of their flag now wanes;

The Lord of Hosts protects our cause

And crowns our arms with full success.

'Twas then was heard, as from on high,

A mighty voice, that thundered loud:

"On, children, on, and God with us!"

Surrounded by his heroes leal,

He sallies forth. His eyes gleam fierce;

His face is stern, and terror strikes.

Quickly he moves. His noble form,

Dark-louring like God's thunder-storm,

Destruction breathes. The steed is brought,

And restive, but submissive, stands;

Scenting afar the smoke and fire,

It trembling darts its eyes askance,

And proudly bears its rider bold,

Who seemed to know his fiery steed.