"Though Europe against me was arm'd, "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, ; "He call'd for our old battle standard Our people were weeping and mute, "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 themOn all Prussian and Austrian fry; And, O! but I pray we may meet them, And fight them again ere I die." 'Twas thus old Peter did conclude Perhaps the tale a moral bears, (All tales in time to this must come,) The story of two hundred years What Peter told with drum and stick, 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, Describes the same in classic prose. Go read the works of Reverend Cox, Of battles fierce and warriors big, He writes in phrases dull and slow, And waves his cauliflower wig, And shouts "Saint George for Marlborow!" With stirring tales how blows were struck. He shows how we the Frenchmen kill'd, 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 valour fail, The end of all such tales-a curse. |