Our warrior was conquer'd at last; They bade him his crown to resign; To fate and his country he yielded The rights of himself and his line. "He came, and among us he stood, Around him we press'd in a throng: We could not regard him for weeping, Who had led us and loved us so long. 'I have led you for twenty long years,'' Napoleon said, ere he went; Wherever was honor I found you, And with you, my sons, am content! Though Europe against me was arm'd, The Emperor rode through our files; "T was June, and a fair Sunday morn; The lines of our warriors for miles Stretch'd wide through the Waterloo corn. "In thousands we stood on the plain, Go scatter yon English,' he said; We answer'd his voice with a shout; Your chiefs and my people are true;"One charge to another succeeds, I still might have struggled with for tune, And baffled all Europe with you. "But France would have suffer'd the while, "T is best that I suffer alone; I go to my place of exile, To write of the deeds we have done. "Be true to the king that they give you, We may not embrace ere we part; "He call'd for our battle standard; Long sound in the hearts of the 'T was thus that Napoleon left us; Our people were weeping and mute, As he pass'd through the lines of his guard, And our drums beat the notes of salute. "I look'd when the drumming was o'er, I look'd, but our hero was gone; We were destined to see him once more, When we fought on the Mount of Like waves that a hurricane bears; All day do our galloping steeds Dash fierce on the enemy's squares. At noon we began the fell onset: We charged up the Englishman's hill; And madly we charged it at sunsetHis banners were floating there still. Go to! I will tell you no more; You know how the battle was lost. Ho! fetch me a beaker of wine, And, comrades, I'll give you a toast. I'll give you a curse on all traitors, Who plotted our Emperor's ruin; And a curse on those red-coated English, Whose bayonets help'd our undoing. "A curse on those British assassins, Who order'd the slaughter of Ney; A curse on Sir Hudson, who tortured The life of our hero away. A curse on all Russians - I hate them On all Prussian and Austrian fry; And oh! but I pray we may meet them, And fight them again ere I die." 'T was thus old Peter did conclude His chronicle with curses fit. Perhaps the tale a moral bears, The story of two hundred years What Peter told with drum and stick, Is endless theme for poet's pen : Is found in endless quartos thick, Enormous books by learned men. And ever since historian writ, And ever since a bard could sing, Doth each exalt with all his wit The noble art of murdering. We love to read the glorious page, How bold Achilles kill'd his foe: And Turnus, fell'd by Trojans' rage, Went howling to the shades below. How Godfrey led his red - cross knights, How mad Orlando slash'd and slew; There's not a single bard that writes But doth the glorious theme renew. And while, in fashion picturesque, The poet rhymes of blood and blows, The grave historian at his desk Describes the same in classic prose. He shows how we the Frenchmen kill'd, And praises God for our good luck. Some hints, 't is true, of politics The doctors give and statesman's art: Pierre only bangs his drum and sticks, And understands the bloody part. He cares not what the cause may be, He is not nice for wrong and right; But show him where's the enemy, He only asks to drum and fight. They bid him fight, - perhaps he wins. And when he tells the story o'er, The honest savage brags and grins, And only longs to fight once more. But luck may change, and valor fail, Our drummer, Peter, meet reverse, And with a moral points his taleThe end of all such tales- a curse. Last year, my love, it was my hap No taller man, methinks, than me. Prince Albert and the Queen, God wot, (Be blessings on the glorious pair!) Before us passed, I saw them not, I only saw a cap of hair. Your orthodox historian puts In foremost rank the soldier thus, The red-coat bully in his boots, That hides the march of men from us. He puts him there in foremost rank, You wonder at his cap of hair: You hear his sabre's cursed clank, His spurs are jingling everywhere, Go to! I hate him and his trade: Who bade us so to cringe and bend, And all God's peaceful people made To such as him subservient? Tell me what find we to admire In epaulets and scarlet coats, In men, because they load and fire, And know the art of cutting throats? * Ah, gentle, tender lady mine! Long, sitting by their watchfires, shall the Kabyles tell the tale Of thy dash from Ben Halifa on the fat Metidja vale; How thou swept'st the desert over, bearing down the wild El Riff, The winter wind blows cold and From eastern Beni Salah to western shrill, And what care we for war and wrack, To pluck him down, and keep him up, Died many million human souls; "T is twelve o'clock, and time to sup, Bid Mary heap the fire with coals. He captured many thousand guns; He wrote "The Great" before his name; And dying, only left his sons The recollection of his shame. Though more than half the world was his, He died without a rood his own; Six foot of ground to lie upon. And somewhere now, in yonder stars, Quad Shelif; ABD-EL-KADER AT TOULON. Weep, maidens of Zerifah, above the OR, THE CAGED HAWK. No more, thou lithe and long-winged hawk, of desert-life for thee; No more across the sultry sands shalt thou go swooping free: Blunt idle talons, idle beak, with spurning of thy chain, Shatter against thy cage the wing thou ne'er may'st spread again. This ballad was written at Paris, at the time of the Second Funeral of Napoleon, laden loom! But with traitors all around him, his THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S star upon the wane, He heard the voice of ALLAH, and he would not strive in vain. They gave him what he asked them; from king to king he spake, As one that plighted word and seal not knoweth how to break; "Let me pass from out my deserts, be 't mine own choice where to go, I brook no fettered life to live, a captive and a show." And they promised, and he trusted them, and proud and calm he came, Upon his black mare riding, girt with his sword of fame. Good steed, good sword, he rendered both unto the Frankish throng; He knew them false and fickle - but a Prince's word is strong. How have they kept their promise? Turned they the vessel's prow Unto Acre, Alexandria, as they have sworn e'en now? Not so from Oran northwards the white sails gleam and glance, And the wild hawk of the desert is borne away to France! Where Toulon's white-walled lazaret looks southward o'er the wave, Sits he that trusted in the word a son of Louis gave. O noble faith of noble heart! And was the warning vain, The text writ by the BOURBON in the blurred black book of Spain? They have need of thee to gaze on, they have need of thee to grace The triumph of the Prince, to gild the pinchbeck of their race. Words are but wind, conditions must be construed by Guizor; Dash out thy heart, thou desert hawk, ere thou art made a show! TESTAMENT. THE noble King of Brentford They cramm'd their gracious master The monarch's royal mandate The thought of six-and-eightpence " "The doctors have belabor'd me O man of tape and quill! "O'er all the land of Brentford I have but children two. "Prince Thomas is my eldest son, A sober prince is he, And from the day we breech'd him Till now, he's twenty-three, He never caused disquiet To his poor mamma or me. "At school they never flogg'd him. He creditably pass'd, "He never owed a shilling, "While Tom his legal studies "Ned drives about in buggies, "You'll cut him with a shilling," Exclaimed the man of wits: "I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford, "Sir Lawyer, as befits; And portion both their fortunes Unto their several wits." "Your Grace knows best," the lawyer said; "On your commands I wait." "Be silent, sir," says Brentford, "A plague upon your prate! Come take your pen and paper, And write as I dictate.' The will as Brentford spoke it And turn'd him round and dozed; And next week in the churchyard The good old King reposed. Tom, dressed in crape and hatband, Of mourners was the chief; In bitter self-upbraidings Poor Edward showed his grief: Tom hid his fat white countenance In his pocket-handkerchief. “Though small was your allowance, You saved a little store; And those who save a little Shall get a plenty more." "The tortoise and the hare, Tom, 1 |