To Waterloo, with sad ado, And many a sigh and groan, Amongst the dead, came Patty Head, "O prithee tell, good sentinel, If I shall find him here? I'm come to weep upon his corse, "Into our town a serjeant came, With ribands all so fine, A-flaunting in his cap-alas! His bow enlisted mine! They taught him how to turn his toes, I thought that it was love and May, "A sorry March indeed to leave The friends he might have kep’,— No March of Intellect it was, But quite a foolish step. "O prithee tell, good sentinel, If hereabout he lies? I want a corpse with reddish hair, And very sweet blue eyes.” Her sorrow on the sentinel Appear'd to deeply strike :— Walk in," he said, “ among the dead, And soon she picked out Peter Stone, A cannon was his bolster, and O Peter Stone, O Peter Stone, Lord here has been a skrimmage! What have they done to your poor breast That used to hold my image?” "O Patty Head, O Patty Head, You're come to my last kissing; Before I'm set in the Gazette As wounded, dead, and missing! Alas! a splinter of a shell Right in my stomach sticks; French mortars don't agree so well With stomachs as French bricks. |