When by the brook his strain
Cupid is fluting,
And on the neighb'ring plain
Mavors disputing,
There turns the ear ere long,
Loving and tender,
Yet to the noise the song
Soon must surrender.
Loud then the flute-notes glad
Sound 'mid war's thunder;
If I grow raving mad,
Is it a wonder?
Flutes sing and trumpets bray,
Waxing yet stronger;
If, then, my senses stray,
Wonder no longer.