Part II

"The glorious days of SeptemberSaw many aristocrats fall;'Twas then that our pikes drunk the bloodIn the beautiful breast of Lamballe.Pardi, 'twas a beautiful lady!I seldom have looked on her like;And I drumm'd for a gallant procession,That marched with her head on a pike.

"Let's show the pale head to the Queen,We said--she'll remember it well.She looked from the bars of her prison,And shriek'd as she saw it, and fell.We set up a shout at her screaming,We laugh'd at the fright she had shownAt the sight of the head of her minion;How she'd tremble to part with her own.

"We had taken the head of King Capet,We called for the blood of his wife;Undaunted she came to the scaffold,And bared her fair neck to the knife.As she felt the foul fingers that touch'd her,She shrunk, but she deigned not to speak:She look'd with a royal disdain,And died with a blush on her cheek!

"'Twas thus that our country was saved;So told us the safety committee!But psha! I've the heart of a soldier,All gentleness, mercy, and pity.I loathed to assist at such deeds,And my drum beat its loudest of tunesAs we offered to justice offendedThe blood of the bloody tribunes.

"Away with such foul recollections!No more of the axe and the block;I saw the last fight of the sections,As they fell 'neath our guns at Saint Rock.Young BONAPARTE led us that day;When he sought the Italian frontier,I follow'd my gallant young captain,I follow'd him many a long year.

"We came to an army in rags,Our general was but a boyWhen we first saw the Austrian flagsFlaunt proud in the fields of Savoy.In the glorious year ninety-six,We march'd to the banks of the Po;I carried my drum and my sticks,And we laid the proud Austrian low.

"In triumph we enter'd Milan,We seized on the Mantuan keys;The troops of the Emperor ran,And the Pope he tell down on his knees.--Pierre's comrades here call'd a fresh bottle,And clubbing together their wealth,They drank to the Army of Italy,And General Bonaparte's health."

The drummer now bared his old breast,And show'd us a plenty of scars,Rude presents that Fortune had made him,In fifty victorious wars."This came when I follow'd bold Kleber--'Twas shot by a Mameluke gun;And this from an Austrian sabre,When the field of Marengo was won.

"My forehead has many deep furrows,But this is the deepest of all:A Brunswicker made it at Jena,Beside the fair river of Saal.This cross, 'twas the Emperor gave it;(God bless him!) it covers a blow;I had it at Austerlitz fight,As I beat on my drum in the snow.

"'Twas thus that we conquer'd and fought;But wherefore continue the story?There's never a baby in FranceBut has heard of our chief and our glory,--But has heard of our chief and our fame,His sorrows and triumphs can tell,How bravely Napoleon conquer'd,How bravely and sadly he fell.

"It makes my old heart to beat higher,To think of the deeds that I saw;I follow'd bold Ney through the fire,And charged at the side of Murat."And so did old Peter continueHis story of twenty brave years;His audience follow'd with comments--Rude comments of curses and tears.

He told how the Prussians in vainHad died in defence of their land;His audience laugh'd at the story,And vow'd that their captain was grand!He had fought the red English, he said,In many a battle of Spain;They cursed the red English, and prayedTo meet them and fight them again.

He told them how Russia was lost,Had winter not driven them back;And his company cursed the quick frost,And doubly they cursed the Cossack.He told how the stranger arrived;They wept at the tale of disgrace:And they long'd but for one battle more,The stain of their shame to efface!

"Our country their hordes overrun,We fled to the fields of Champagne,And fought them, though twenty to one,And beat them again and again!Our warrior was conquer'd at last;They bade him his crown to resign;To fate and his country he yieldedThe 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,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 called for our battle standard;One kiss to the eagle he gave.'Dear eagle!' he said, 'may this kissLong 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 milesStretch'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 tonight.'We answered 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 steedsDash 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 sunset--His 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 torturedThe 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 concludeHis 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 yearsWrit 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 witThe 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 writesBut doth the glorious theme renew.

And while, in fashion picturesque,The poet rhymes of blood and blows,The grave historian at his deskDescribes the same in classic prose.

Go read the works of Reverend Cox,You'll duly see recorded thereThe history of the self-same knocksHere 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 himselfBecause we beat the Corsican!

From first to last his page is filledWith 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 politicsThe 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 tale--The end of all such tales--a curse.

Last year, my love, it was my hapBehind 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 putsIn 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 madeTo such as him subservient?

Tell me what find we to admireIn epaulets and scarlet coats.In men, because they load and fire,And know the art of cutting throats?

Ah, gentle, tender lady mine!The winter wind blows cold and shrill,Come, fill me one more glass of wine,And give the silly fools their will.

And what care we for war and wrack,How kings and heroes rise and fall;Look yonder, in his coffin black,There lies the greatest of them all!

To pluck him down, and keep him up,Died many million human souls;'Tis 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 sonsThe recollection of his shame.

Though more than half the world was his,He died without a rood his own;And borrowed from his enemiesSix foot of ground to lie upon.

He fought a thousand glorious wars,And more than half the world was his,And somewhere now, in yonder stars,Can tell, mayhap, what greatness is.