Before my charger bears me to the battle,
Upon the Elba plain,
I come again to see thee, dearest,
And ’neath thy chamber window, sweetest,
Plant a snowball bush by the same.
Should it in early spring be green with leaflets,
And many blossoms fair,
Think of me, then, oh my precious one,
Riding home, and the battle well won,
To you, the fairest of the fair.
But should the stem in spring be dried and leafless,
Without bud or flower,
Think of me, then, in some far-off plain,
By the enemy’s swords lying slain—
And that I blessed thee In that hour.