My arm is feeble, see,--
I still must have it in a sling;
Be softly now with me!
But do not let the canteen slip,--
Here, take it first, I pray,--
For when that's broken from my lip,
All joys will flow away.

"And why for that so anxious?--pshaw!
It is not worth a pin:
The common glass, the bit of straw,
And not a drop within!"
No matter, Lottie, take it out,--
'T is past your reckoning:
Yes, look it round and round about,--
There drank from it--my King!

By Leipsic near, if you must know,--
'T was just no children's play,--
A ball hit me a grievous blow,
And in the crowd I lay;
Nigh death, they bore me from the scene,
My garments off they fling,
Yet held I fast by my canteen,--
There drank from it--my King!

For once our ranks in passing through
He paused,--we saw his face;
Around us keen the volleys flew,
He calmly kept his place.