When a soldier passes, proudly arrayed,
His hat pressed deep over his eyes,
With a naked sword before his ranks,
Then I wish I were a soldier:
But when the regiment is dispatched to Bohemia,
Where bearded guerrilla fighters stand,
Who threaten with infernal knives;
Then I wish not to be a soldier.

When the trumpet rings out like a clarion,
Joy sings out from rough throats,
And courageous horses cry out with a neigh,
Then I wish I were a soldier:
But when they feel no humanity,
And aim at heads, exactly as they do at targets,
Have no regrets about their young lives,
Then I wish not to be a soldier.

When they burst into full cellars,
And carouse together like brothers,
Whether in Hungary or along the Rhine,
Then I wish I were a soldier:
But when they show themselves to be too cheeky,
And audaciously climb ramparts and walls,
Where squat cannons spew forth fire,
Then I wish not to be a soldier.

When maidens tremble before Croats,
And consign themselves to [the soldiers'] protection,
Which they gladly grant the maidens,
Then I wish I were a soldier.
But when, in order to cart off the booty,
They fight each other over it with sabres,
Are never happy about the spoils,
Then I wish not to be a soldier.