Wallenstein's Camp: A Play

SCENE I.

     Sutlers' tents—in front, a Slop-shop. Soldiers of all colors and
     uniforms thronging about. Tables all filled. Croats and Hulans
     cooking at a fire. Sutler-woman serving out wine. Soldier-boys
     throwing dice on a drum-head. Singing heard from the tent.

            Enter a Peasant and his Son.

  SON.
  Father, I fear it will come to harm,
  So let us be off from this soldier swarm;
  But boist'rous mates will ye find in the shoal—
  'Twere better to bolt while our skins are whole.

  FATHER.
  How now, boy! the fellows wont eat us, though
  They may be a little unruly, or so.
  See, yonder, arriving a stranger train,
  Fresh comers are they from the Saal and Mayne;
  Much booty they bring of the rarest sort—
  'Tis ours, if we cleverly drive our sport.
  A captain, who fell by his comrade's sword,
  This pair of sure dice to me transferred;
  To-day I'll just give them a trial to see
  If their knack's as good as it used to be.
  You must play the part of a pitiful devil,
  For these roaring rogues, who so loosely revel,
  Are easily smoothed, and tricked, and flattered,
  And, free as it came, their gold is scattered.
  But we—since by bushels our all is taken,
  By spoonfuls must ladle it back again;
  And, if with their swords they slash so highly,
  We must look sharp, boy, and do them slyly.

         [Singing and shouting in the tent.

  Hark, how they shout! God help the day!
  'Tis the peasant's hide for their sport must pay.
  Eight months in our beds and stalls have they
  Been swarming here, until far around
  Not a bird or a beast is longer found,
  And the peasant, to quiet his craving maw,
  Has nothing now left but his bones to gnaw.
  Ne'er were we crushed with a heavier hand,
  When the Saxon was lording it o'er the land:
  And these are the Emperor's troops, they say!

  SON.
  From the kitchen a couple are coming this way,
  Not much shall we make by such blades as they.

  FATHER.
  They're born Bohemian knaves—the two—
  Belonging to Terzky's carabineers,
  Who've lain in these quarters now for years;
  The worst are they of the worthless crew.
  Strutting, swaggering, proud and vain,
  They seem to think they may well disdain
  With the peasant a glass of his wine to drain
  But, soft—to the left o' the fire I see
  Three riflemen, who from the Tyrol should be
  Emmerick, come, boy, to them will we.
  Birds of this feather 'tis luck to find,
  Whose trim's so spruce, and their purse well lined.

              [They move towards the tent.