'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, 46 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 Englishmen'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 helped our undoing. "A curse on those British assassins, Who order'd the slaughter of Ney; A curse on all Russians-I hate them- 'Twas thus old Peter did conclude He spoke the tale in accents rude, 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, And ever since historian writ, And ever since a bard could sing, We love to read the glorious page, How Godfrey led his red-cross knights, And while, in fashion picturesque, Describes the same in classic prose. Go read the works of Reverend Coxe, 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!" 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 : He cares not what the cause may be, They bid him fight,—perhaps he wins But luck may change, and valor fail, The end of all such tales-a curse. Last year, my love, it was my hap And, but he wore a hairy cap, 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 them there in foremost rank, Go to! I hate him and his trade: Tell me what find we to admire Ah, gentle, tender lady mine! * The winter wind blows cold and shrill; And what care we for war and wrack, Look yonder,* in his coffin black To pluck him down, and keep him up, 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 fought a thousand glorious wars, ABD-EL-KADER AT TOULON. 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: This ballad was written at Paris at the time of the Second Funeral of Napoleon. |