Oh! Hector, wilt thou go for evermore,
Where fierce Achilles, on the blood-stained shore,
Heaps countless victims o'er Patroclus' grave?
Who then thy hapless orphan boy will rear,
Teach him to praise the gods and hurl the spear
When thou art swallowed up in Xanthus' wave?
CHARLES (silently tunes the guitar, and plays). Beloved wife!--stern duty calls to arms-- Go, fetch my lance! and cease those vain alarms!
[He flings the guitar away, and rushes off.
The band of ROBBERS encamped on the ground.
The ROBBERS singing.
To rob, to kill, to wench, to fight,
Our pastime is, and daily sport;
The gibbet claims us morn and night,
So let's be jolly, time is short.
A merry life we lead, and free,
A life of endless fun;
Our couch is 'neath the greenwood tree,
Through wind and storm we gain our fee,
The moon we make our sun.
Old Mercury is our patron true,
And a capital chap for helping us through.
To-day we make the abbot our host,
The farmer rich to-morrow;
And where we shall get our next day's roast,
Gives us nor care nor sorrow.
And, when with Rhenish and rare Moselle
Our throats we have been oiling,
Our courage burns with a fiercer swell,
And we're hand and glove with the Lord of Hell,
Who down in his flames is broiling.
For fathers slain the orphans' cries,
The widowed mothers' moan and wail,
Of brides bereaved the whimpering sighs,
Like music sweet, our ears regale.