There was Junot and Augereau, Heigh-ho, for Moscow !
Dombrowsky and Poniatowsky,
General Rapp and Emperor Nap,
Nothing would do,
And then came on the frost and snow,
All on the road from Moscow !
The Emperor Nap found, as he went,
That he was not quite omnipotent;
And worse and worse the weather grew,
While the fields were so green and the sky so blue, The fields were so white and the sky so blue,
Morbleu Parbleu !
But they must be marched to Moscow.
But the Russians they stoutly turned to,
All on the road to Moscow,
Nap had to fight his way all through,
They could fight, but they could not parley-vous, But the fields were green, and the sky was blue, Morbleu! Parbleu !
And so he got to Moscow.
They made the place too hot for him,
For they set fire to Moscow;
To get there had cost him much ado,
And then no better course he knew,
While the fields were green and the sky was blue,
Morbleu Parbleu !
Than to march back again from Moscow.
The Russians they stuck close to him,
All on the road from Moscow;
There was Tormazow and Gomalow,
And all the others that end in ow;
Rajefsky and Noverefsky,
And all the others that, end in efsky;
Schamscheff, Souchosaneff, and Schepeleff,
And all the others that end in eff; Wasiltschecoff, Kostomaroff, and Theoglokoff, And all the others that end in off; Milaravoditch, and Juladovitch, and Karatchkowitch,
And all the others that end in itch;
Oscharoffsky, and Rostoffsky, Kasatichkoffsky,
And all the others that end in offsky;
And Platoff he played them off,
And Markoff he marked them off,
And Tutchkoff he touched them off,
And Kutusoff he cut them off,
And Woronzoff he worried them off,
And Dochtoroff he doctored them off,
And Rodinoff he flogged them off;
And last of all an Admiral came,
A terrible man, with a terrible name,
A name which you all must know very well,
Nobody can speak, and nobody can spell.
They stuck close to Nap with all their might,
They were on the left and on the right,
Behind and before, and by day and by night;
Nap would rather parley-vous than fight;
But parley-vous would no more do,
Morbleu Parbleu !
For they remembered Moscow !
Morbleu Ventrebleu !
What a terrible journey from Moscow !
The devil take the hindmost,
All on the road from Moscow !
Quoth Nap, who thought it small delight,
To fight all day and to freeze all night;
And so, not knowing what else to do,
When the fields were so white and the sky so blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu !
He stole away, I tell you true,
All by himself from Moscow.
RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS."
WITH that he fell upon the old man's neck;
Then vaulted in the saddle, gave the reins,
And soon rejoined the host. On, comrades, on!
Victory and Vengeance! he exclaimed, and took
The lead on that good charger, he alone
Horsed for the onset. They, with one consent,
Gave all their voices to the inspiring cry,
Victory and Vengeance! and the hills and rocks
Caught the prophetic shout and rolled it round.
Count Pedro's people heard amid the heat
Of battle, and returned the glad acclaim.
The astonished Mussulmen, on all sides charged,
Heard that tremendous cry; yet manfully
They stood, and everywhere, with gallant front,
Opposed in fair array the shock of war.
Desperately they fought, like men expert in arms,
And knowing that no safety could be found
Save from their own right hands. No former day
Of all his long career had seen their chief
Approved so well; nor had Witiza's sous
Ever before this hour achieved in fight
Such feats of resolute valor. Sisibert
Beheld Pelayo in the field afoot,
And twice essayed beneath his horse's feet
To thrust him down. Twice did the prince evade
The shock, and twice upon his shield received
The fratricidal sword. Tempt me no more,
Son of Witiza, cried the indignant chief,
Lest I forget what mother gave thee birth!
Go meet thy death from any hand but mine!
He said, and turned aside. Fitliest from me!
Exclaimed a dreadful voice, as through the throng
Orelio forced his way: fitliest from me
Receive the rightful death too long withheld!
Tis Roderick strikes the blow! And as he The true Cantabrian weapon making way Attained his forehead. "Wretch!" the avenger
Upon the traitor's shoulder fierce he drove
The weapon, well bestowed. He in the seat
Tottered and fell. The avenger hastened on
In search of Ebba; and in the heat of fight
Rejoicing, and forgetful of all else,
Set up his cry, as he was wont in youth,
Roderick the Goth! - his war-cry known
well.
Pelayo eagerly took up the word,
"It comes from Roderick's hand! Roderick the Goth!
Who spared, who trusted thee, and was be
Go tell thy father now how thou hast sped
so With all thy treasons!" Saying thus, he seized
The miserable, who, blinded now with blood,
Reeled in the saddle; and with sidelong step
Backing Orelio, drew him to the ground.
He shrieking, as beneath the horse's feet
He fell, forgot his late-learnt creed, and called
On Mary's name. The dreadful Goth passed on,
Still plunging through the thickest war, and still
Scattering, where'er he turned, the affrighted
ranks.
And shouted out his kinsman's name beloved,
Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!
Roderick and Vengeance! Odoar gave it forth;
Urban repeated it, and through his ranks
Count Pedro sent the cry. Not from the field
Of his great victory, when Witiza fell,
With louder acclamations had that name
Been borne abroad upon the winds of heaven.
The unreflecting throng, who yesterday,
If it had passed their lips, would with a curse
Have clogged it, echoed it as if it came
From some celestial voice in the air, revealed
To be the certain pledge of all their hopes.
Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!
Roderick and Vengeance! O'er the field it
spread,
All hearts and tongues uniting in the cry;
Mountains and rocks and vales re-echoed round;
And he, rejoicing in his strength, rode on,
Laying on the Moors with that good sword, and
smote,
And overthrew, and scattered, and destroyed,
And trampled down; and still at every blow
Exultingly he sent the war-cry forth,
Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!
Roderick and Vengeance!
Thus he made his way, Smiting and slaying, through the astonished ranks,
Till he beheld, where, on a fiery barb,
Ebba, performing well a soldier's part,
Dealt to the right and left his deadly blows.
With mutual rage they met. The renegade
Displays a cimeter, the splendid gift
Of Walid from Damascus sent; its hilt
Embossed with gems, its blade of perfect steel,
Which, like a mirror sparkling to the sun
With dazzling splendor, flashed. The Goth ob-
jects
Nay, never speak; my sires, Lord King, received their land from yours,
His shield, and on its rim received the edge
Driven from its aim aside, and of its force
Diminished. Many a frustrate stroke was dealt And joyfully their blood shall spring, so be it
On either part, and many a foin and thrust
Aimed and rebated; many a deadly blow,
Straight or reverse, delivered and repelled.
Roderick at length with better speed hath reached
The apostate's turban, and through all its folds
If I should fly, and thou, my King, be found among the dead,
How could I stand 'mong gentlemen, such scorn
HIS puissant sword unto his side Near his undaunted heart was tied, With basket hilt that would hold broth, And serve for fight and dinner both. In it he melted lead for bullets To shoot at foes, and sometimes pullets, To whom he bore so fell a grutch He ne'er gave quarter to any such. The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty, For want of fighting was grown rusty, And ate into itself, for lack
Of somebody to hew and hack.
The peaceful scabbard, where it dwelt,
The rancor of its edge had felt;
For of the lower end two handful
It had devoured, it was so manful;
And so much scorned to lurk in case,
As if it durst not show its face.
This sword a dagger had, his page,
That was but little for his age,
And therefore waited on him so
As dwarfs unto knight-errants do.
It was a serviceable dudgeon,
Either for fighting or for drudging.
When it had stabbed or broke a head,
It would scrape trenchers or chip bread,
Toast cheese or bacon, though it were
To bait a mouse-trap 't would not care;
'T would make clean shoes, and in the earth
Set leeks and onions, and so forth :
It had been 'prentice to a brewer,
Where this and more it did endure;
But left the trade, as many more
Have lately done on the same score.
MALBROUCK, the prince of commanders,
Is gone to the war in Flanders;
His fame is like Alexander's;
But when will he come home?
Perhaps at Trinity feast; or
Perhaps he may come at Easter.
Egad! he had better make haste, or
We fear he may never come.
For Trinity feast is over,
And has brought no news from Dover; And Easter is past, moreover,
And Malbrouck still delays.
Milady in her watch-tower
Spends many a pensive hour,
Not knowing why or how her
Dear lord from England stays.
While sitting quite forlorn in
That tower, she spies returning
A page clad in deep mourning,
With fainting steps and slow.
"O page, prithee, come faster! What news do you bring of your master? I fear there is some disaster,
Your looks are so full of woe." "The news I bring, fair lady," With sorrowful accent said he, "Is one you are not ready
So soon, alas! to heer.
"But since to speak I'm hurried,"
Added this page quite flurried,
"Malbrouck is dead and buried!"
-And here he shed a tear.
"He's dead! he's dead as a herring!
For I beheld his berring,
And four officers transferring
His corpse away from the field.
"One officer carried his sabre;
And he carried it not without labor,
Much envying his next neighbor,
Who only bore a shield.
"The third was helmet-bearer,
That helmet which on its wearer
Filled all who saw with terror,
And covered a hero's brains.
"Now, having got so far, I
Find that by the Lord Harry!
The fourth is left nothing to carry ;·
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Count the stars in the clear, cloudless heaven of the north;
Then go blazon their numbers, their names, and their worth,
All the broadswords of old Scotland! etc.
The highest in splendor, the humblest in place,
Stand united in glory, as kindred in race,
For the private is brother in blood to his Grace.
O the broadswords of old Scotland! etc.
Then sacred to each and to all let it be,
Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us
free,
Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and
Dundee.
O the broadswords of old Scotland! etc.
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART.
Far away the Russian Eagles
Soar o'er smoking hill and dell, And their hordes, like howling beagles,
Dense and countless, round them yell!
Thundering cannon, deadly mortar,
Sweep the field in every quarter!
Never, since the days of Jesus,
Trembled so the Chersonesus !
Here behold the Gallic Lilies -
Stout St. Louis' golden Lilies
Float as erst at old Ramillies!
And beside them, lo! the Lion!
With her trophied Cross, is flying!
Glorious standards !— shall they waver
On the field of Balaklava ?
No, by Heavens at that command
Sudden, rash, but stern command
Charges Lucan's little band!
Brave Six Hundred ! lo! they charge,
On the battle's bloody marge!
Down yon deep and skirted valley,
Where the crowded cannon play, -
Where the Czar's fierce cohorts rally,
Cossack, Calmuck, savage Kalli,
Down that gorge they swept away!
Down that new Thermopyla,
Flashing swords and helmets see!
Underneath the iron shower,
To the brazen cannon's jaws,
Heedless of their deadly power,
Press they without fear or pause, -
To the very cannon's jaws!
Gallant Nolan, brave as Roland
At the field of Roncesvalles,
Dashes down the fatal valley,
Dashes on the bolt of death,
Shouting with his latest breath,
"Charge, then, gallants! do not waver,
Charge the pass at Balaklava!"
O that rash and fatal charge,
On the battle's bloody marge!
Now the bolts of volleyed thunder
Rend that little band asunder,
Steed and rider wildly screaming,
Screaming wildly, sink away;
Late so proudly, proudly gleaming,
Now but lifeless clods of clay,
Now but bleeding clods of clay !
Never, since the days of Jesus,
Saw such sight the Chersonesus!
Yet your remnant, brave Six Hundred,
Presses onward, onward, onward,
Till they storm the bloody pass,
Till, like brave Leonidas,
They storm the deadly pass!
Sabring Cossack, Calmuck, Kalli,
In that wild shot-rended valley, -
Drenched with fire and blood, like lava,
Awful pass at Balaklava!
O that rash and fatal charge,
On that battle's bloody marge!
For now Russia's rallied forces,
Swarming hordes of Cossack horses,
Trampling o'er the reeking corses,
Drive the thinned assailants back,
Drive the feeble remnant back,
O'er their late heroic track!
Vain, alas! now rent and sundered,
Vain your struggles, brave Two Hundred !
Thrice your number lie asleep,,
In that valley dark and deep.
Weak and wounded you retire
From that hurricane of fire,
That tempestuous storm of fire,
But no soldiers, firmer, braver,
Ever trod the field of fame,
Than the Knights of Balaklava,
Honor to each hero's name ! Yet their country long shall mourn For her rank so rashly shorn, So gallantly, but madly shorn In that fierce and fatal charge, On the battle's bloody marge.
DEATH OF ARTHUR.
So all day long the noise of battle rolled Among the mountains by the winter sea; Until King Arthur's Table, man by man, Had fallen in Lyonesse about their lord, King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep, The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, A broken chancel with a broken cross, That stood on a dark strait of barren land. On one side lay the Ocean, and on one Lay a great water, and the moon was full.
Such a sleep
I think that we
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : "The sequel of to-day unsolders all The goodliest fellowship of famous knights Whereof this world holds record. They sleep- the men I loved. Shall nevermore, at any future time, Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, Walking about the gardens and the halls Of Camelot, as in the days that were. I perish by this people which I made, Though Merlin sware that I should come again To rule once more; but let what will be, be. I am so deeply smitten through the helm That without help I cannot last till morn. Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,
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