Clara. Then I will choose our song.
Quick, gay, as if our notes were like the steps
That rush to battle—'tis a soldier's song.
(She sings, while Brackenberg, accompanying
her, holds the yarn which she is winding.)
Fife and trumpet are sounding
The battle alarms;
How my wild heart is bounding—
My love is in arms.
His bright lance is gleaming
On high in the air;
His banner is streaming—
I would I were there!
Oh, had I a helmet,
A sword, and a shield,
I would follow my true love
Away to the field!
Hark! hark! the death rattle
Of shot from the gun:
Our chief leads the battle
He leads—it is won!
Would I were the meanest
That belted a sword;
Its edge were the keenest
That drew for my lord!
To pray and sigh for him
Is all that I can;
I would strike and die for him,
If I were a man!
He soon ceases to accompany her; and,
letting the skein fall from his hand, goes
to the window. Clara rises, as if to follow
him; but resumes her seat. Brackenberg,
at her request, goes to inquire what has
caused the unusual attendance of guards
upon the regent who is passing.)
