TRUMPETER.
You haven't the look on't--you're spruce to view.

SERGEANT.
Ay, faith, on the Saal, and in Meissen, too,
Your praises are heard from the lips of few.

SECOND YAGER.
Tush, man! why, what the plague d'ye mean?
The Croat had swept the fields so clean,
There was little or nothing for us to glean.

TRUMPETER.
Yet your pointed collar is clean and sightly,
And, then, your hose that sit so tightly!
Your linen so fine, with the hat and feather,
Make a show of smartness altogether!
(To Sergeant.)
That fortune should upon younkers shine--
While nothing in your way comes, or mine.

SERGEANT.
But then we're the Friedlander's regiment
And, thus, may honor and homage claim.

FIRST YAGER.
For us, now, that's no great compliment,
We, also, bear the Friedlander's name.

SERGEANT.