’Twas a summer evening, Old Kaspar’s work was done,
And he before his cottage door was sitting in the sun,
And by him sported on the green his little grandchild Wilhelmine.
“And thou,” said he, “my little maid,
How dost thou, pray, like on the green?”
“Grandfather,” she said, “I like it well,
But tell me, pray, what the battle mean?”
“Why, the cannon, the drums, and the flashing of the sword,
And the shouting of men, and the dying of the poor?
’Twas the Battle of Blenheim, my child,” he said,
“And the victory that the English won, my dear,
With Marlborough and Eugene at their head.”