This ballad by the German poet Heinrich Heine (see also weeks 70 and 457) first appeared in a collection of 1822. It is a testimony to the fact that in France, and even beyond it, Napoleon Bonaparte was regarded as a Good Thing. This was not the case in Britain, of course, but even here, as many songs and stories of the time attest, old Boney was regarded with fascination and even a grudging amount of respect.
Which just goes to show that if a leader wants the allegiance of a people, all he has to do is offer them three things: pride, a sense of destiny, and an excuse for behaving very badly towards members of other tribes.
The translation that follows is my own.
Die Grenadiere
Nach Frankreich zogen zwei Grenadier,
Die waren in Rußland gefangen.
Und als sie kamen ins deutsche Quartier,
Sie ließen die Köpfe hangen.
Da hörten sie beide die traurige Mär:
Daß Frankreich verloren gegangen,
Besiegt und zerschlagen das große Heer –
Und der Kaiser, der Kaiser gefangen.
Da weinten zusammen die Grenadier
Wohl ob der kläglichen Kunde.
Der eine sprach: Wie weh wird mir,
Wie brennt meine alte Wunde!
Der andre sprach: Das Lied ist aus,
Auch ich möcht mit dir sterben,
Doch hab ich Weib und Kind zu Haus,
Die ohne mich verderben.
Was schert mich Weib, was schert mich Kind,
Ich trage weit beßres Verlangen;
Laß sie betteln gehn, wenn sie hungrig sind –
Mein Kaiser, mein Kaiser gefangen!
Gewähr mir, Bruder, eine Bitt:
Wenn ich jetzt sterben werde,
So nimm meine Leiche nach Frankreich mit,
Begrab mich in Frankreichs Erde.
Das Ehrenkreuz am roten Band
sollst du aufs Herz mir legen;
Die Flinte gib mir in die Hand,
Und gürt mir um den Degen.
So will ich liegen und horchen still,
Wie eine Schildwach, im Grabe,
Bis einst ich höre Kanonengebrüll
Und wiehernder Rosse Getrabe.
Dann reitet mein Kaiser wohl über mein Grab,
Viel Schwerter klirren und blitzen;
Dann steig ich gewaffnet hervor aus dem Grab,
Den Kaiser, den Kaiser zu schützen.
Heinrich Heine
The Grenadiers
Two grenadiers were bound for France,
Returned from Russia’s snow,
And when they crossed the German line
They let their heads hang low.
For there they heard the tragic tale
Of France by fate forsaken:
Its army conquered and destroyed,
Its emperor, o taken!
The grenadiers together wept
This woeful news to learn.
One spoke: ‘Such hurt this does to me,
It makes my old wound burn’.
The other spoke: ‘The song is done,
And I would die with thee,
But I’ve a wife and child at home
Who’ll perish without me’.
‘What care I for wife and child
When better wants awaken!
Let them go beg, or let them starve.
My emperor, o taken!
‘But grant me, brother, one request
For what my death is worth:
Bear my body back to France
To bury in French earth.
‘My honour cross with ribbon red
Upon my heart be laid,
Place my musket in my hand,
And gird me with my blade.
‘So I will lie and listen still,
A sentry evermore,
Till neighing stallions stamp above
And I hear cannon roar.
‘Then I will know he rides again,
Swords flashing far afield,
And climb accoutred from my grave
My emperor to shield!’
David Sutton 
Dear David,
The first verse is the verse you quoted to me (from memory!), when we were working together winter 1994/5 – a moment that has stayed with me. :0)
I still read Heine to this day, and saw a lovely exhibition on his life, in Paris in the late 1990s. The staff were in period costume and if you lingered in any of the selected but invisible “hot spots” in the exhibition, they’d come over and recite Heine to you. Regrettably for me, in French – and my French wasn’t that strong in my first years there.
Delighted to see this Heine come from you again after so many years.
All the best,
Gareth
Thanks Gareth. What a joy to have such a remembering and appreciative colleague! I seem to remember that normally if I tried quoting poetry to people at work they would edge away nervously and think about calling security. The exhibition sounds great, though I find it hard to imagine Heine going well into French. All the best.