The swashbuckler

A toast to my lady,

A weathervane is her banner,

Fortune is her name,

and the camp is her quarters!

And if she goes somewhere else,

I will not trouble myself over it;

without cavalrymen,

the world is a boring place.

Instead of powder shot and crackling muskets,

outside each deserted house

you see gossips chattering;

there's no joy in such a land.

Fortune weeps with annoyance:

tears like pearls run down;

"Where is my swashbuckler?

He was a different kind of man!"

She reaches her arm to me

and accompanying Fame trumpets;

and so we ascend to the temple

of immortality.