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"Though Europe against me was arm'd,
Your chiefs and my people are true;
"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,
"I look'd when the drumming was o'er,
We were destined to see him once more,
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,
A curse on all Russians-I hate them—
Go read the works of Reverend Cox,
The history of the self-same knocks
Of battles fierce and warriors big,
He writes in phrases dull and slow,
And waves his cauliflower wig,
And shouts "Saint George for Marlborow!"
Take Doctor Southey from the shelf,
An LL.D.,-a peaceful man ;
Good Lord, how doth he plume himself
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,
They bid him fight,-perhaps he wins.
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
No taller man, methinks, than me.
Prince Albert and the Queen, God wot,
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,
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,
And know the art of cutting throats?