Up in the trees did many hide,
There hoping not to be espied;
But like the crows we shot them:
The rest on spears did we impale,
Their feathers were of no avail,
The wind would not transport them.

He will not vouch for the number of the killed, but gives it on hearsay
as twenty-six thousand drowned and slain; but he regrets that their
flight was so precipitate as to prevent him from recording a more
refreshing total. He is specially merry over the wealth and luxurious
habits of Charles, alludes to his vapor-baths, etc.:--

His game of chess was to his cost,
Of pawns has he a many lost,
And twice[8] his guard is broken;
His castles help him not a mite,
And see how lonesome stands his knight!
Checkmate's against him spoken.

[Footnote 8: Once, the year before, at Granson.]

The wars of the rich cities with the princes and bishops stimulated a
great many poems that are full of the traits of burgher-life. Seventeen
princes declared war against Nuremberg, and seventy-two cities made a
league with her. The Swiss sent a contingent of eight hundred men. This
war raged with great fierceness, and with almost uninterrupted success
for the knights, till the final battle which took place near Pillerent,
in 1456. A Nuremberg painter, Hans Rosenpluel, celebrated this in verses
like Veit Weber's, with equal vigor, but downright prosaic