"Though Europe against me was arm'd,
Your chiefs and my people are true;
I still might have struggled with fortune,
And baffled all Europe with you.

"But France would have suffer'd the while, 'Tis 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; But, General, reach me your hand,

And press me, I pray, to your heart.'

"He call'd for our battle standard; One kiss to the eagle he gave.

'Dear eagle!' he said, 'may this kiss

Long sound in the hearts of the brave!'

'Twas 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 St. John.

The Emperor rode through our files;

'Twas 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, 'The red-coats were crowning the height; 'Go scatter yon English,' he said;

'We'll sup, lads, at Brussels to-night.' We answer'd his voice with a shout; Our eagles were bright in the sun; Our drums and our cannon spoke out, And the thundering battle begun.

"One charge to another succeeds,

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."

'Twas thus old Peter did conclude

His chronicle with curses fit. He spoke the tale in accents rude, In ruder verse I copied it.

Perhaps the tale a moral bears,

(All tales in time to this must come,) The story of two hundred years

Writ on the parchment of a drum.

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.

Go read the works of Reverend Cox,
You'll duly see recorded there
The history of the self-same knocks

Here roughly sung by Drummer Pierre.

Of battles fierce and warriors big,

He writes in phrases dull and slow,

And waves his cauliflower wig,

And shouts "Saint George for Marlborow!"

From first to last his page is filled

With stirring tales how blows were struck. He shows how we the Frenchmen kill'd, And praises God for our good luck.

Some hints, 'tis 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 valour fail,

Our drummer, Peter, meet reverse, And with a moral points his tale

The end of all such tales-a curse.

Last year, my love, it was my hap
Behind a grenadier to be,

And, but he wore a hairy cap,

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?

*