There was Junot and Augereau,

And then came on the frost and snow,
Heigh-ho, for Moscow !

All on the road from Moscow !
Dombrowsky and Poniatowsky,

The Emperor Nap found, as he went,
General Rapp and Emperor Nap,

That he was not quite omnipotent;
Nothing would do,

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 !

Morbleu ! Ventrebleu ! But they must be marched to Moscow.

What a terrible journey from Moscow ! But the Russians they stoutly turned to,

The devil take the hindmost, All on the road to Moscow,

All on the road from Moscow ! Nap had to fight his way all through,

Quoth Nap, who thought it small delight, They could fight, but they could not parley-vous, To fight all day and to freeze all night; But the fields were green, and the sky was blue, And so, not knowing what else to do, Morbleu ! Parbleu !

When the fields were so white and the sky so blue, And so he got to Moscow.

Morbleu ! Parbleu !

He stole away, I tell you true,
They made the place too hot for him,

All by himself from Moscow.
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.

RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS." The Russians they stuck close to him,

With that he fell upon the old man's neck ; All on the road from Moscow;

Then vaulted in the saddle, gave the reins, There was Tormazow and Gomalow,

And soon rejoined the host. On, comrades, on ! And all the others that end in ow;

Victory and Vengeance ! he exclaimed, and took Rajefsky and Noverefsky,

The leal on that good charger, he alone And all the others that end in efsky;

Hlorsed for the onset. They, with one consent, Schamscheff, Souchosaneff, and Schepelelf,

Gave all their voices to the inspiring cry, And all the others that end in eff;

Victory and Vengeance ! and the hills and rocks Wasiltschecoff, Kostomaroff, and Theoglokoff,

Caught the prophetic shout and rolled it round. And all the others that end in off ;

Count Pedro's people heard amid the heat Milaravoditeh, and Juladovitch, and Karateh- of battle, and returned the glad acclaim. kowitch,

The astonished Mussulmen, on all sides charged, And all the others that end in itch;

Heard that tremendous cry ; yet manfully Oscharoffsky, and Rostoffsky, Kasatichkoffsky,

They stood, and everywhere, with gallant front, And all the others that end in offsky;

Opposed in fair array the shock of war. And Platoff he played them off,

Desperately they fought, like men expert in arms, And Markoff he marked them off,

And knowing that no safety could be found And Tutchkoil he touched them off,

Save from their own right hands. No former clay And Kutusoff he cut them off,

Of all his long career had seen their chief And Woronzoff he worried them off,

Approved so well ; nor had Witiza's sous And Dochtoroff he doctored them off,

Ever before this hour achieved in fight And Rodinoff he flogged them off ;

Such feats of resolute valor. Sisibert And last of all an Admiral came,

Beheld Pelayo in the field afoot, A terrible man, with a terrible name,

And twice essayed beneath his horse's feet A name which you all must know very well,

To thrust him down. Twice did the prince erude Nobody can speak, and nobody can spell.

The shock, and twice upon his shield received

The fratricidal sword. Tempt me no more, They stuck close to Nap with all their might, Son of Witiza, cried the indignant chief, They were on the left and on the right,

Lest I forget what mother gave thee birth ! Behind and before, and by day and by night; Go meet thy death from any hand but mine! Nap would rather parley-vous than fight; He said, and turned aside. Fitliest from me! But parley-vous would no more do, Exclaimed a dreadful voice, as through the throng Morbleu ! Parblen !

Orelio forced his way: fitliest from me For they remembered Moscow !

Receive the rightful death too long withheld !


"T is Roderick strikes the blow ! And as he | The true Cantabrian weapon making way spake,

Attained his forehead. **Wretch!" the avenger Upon the traitor's shoulder fierce he drove

cried, The weapon, well bestowed. He in the seat “ It comes from Roderick's hand ! Roderick the Tottered and fell. The avenger hastened on

Goth ! In search of Ebba ; and in the heat of fight Who spared, who trusted thee, and was beRejoicing, and forgetful of all else,

trayed ! Set up his cry, as he was wont in youth, Go tell thy father now how thou hast sped Roderick the Goth! - his war-cry known so With all thy treasons !” Saying thus, he seized well.

The miserable, who, blinded now with blood, Pelayo eagerly took up the word,

Reeled in the saddle; and with sidelong step And shouted out his kinsman's name beloved, Backing Orelio, drew him to the ground. Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory ! He shrieking, as beneath the horse's feet Roderick and Vengeance ! Odoar gave it forth ; He fell, forgot his late-learnt creed, and called Urban repeated it, and through his ranks On Mary's name. The dreadful Goth passed on, Count Pedro sent the cry. Not from the field Still plunging through the thickest war, and still Of his great victory, when Witiza fell,

Scattering, where'er he turned, the affrighted 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.

“ Your horse is faint, my King, my lord ! Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory !

your gallant horse is sick, Roderick and Vengeance ! O'er the field it His limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his spread,

eye the film is thick ; All hearts and tongues uniting in the cry ;

Mount, mount on mine, O, mount apace, I pray Mountains and rocks and vales re-echoed round; thee, mount and fly! And he, rejoicing in his strength, rode on,

Or in my arms I'll lift your Grace, their Laying on the Moors with that good sword, and trampling hoofs are nigh!

smote, And overthrew, and scattered, and destroyed, “My King, my King! you 're wounded sore, And trampled down ; and still at every blow

the blood runs from your feet ; Exultingly he sent the war-cry forth,

But only lay a hand before, and I'll lift you to Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!

your seat ; Roderick and Vengeance !

Mount, Juan, for they gather fast!- I hear Thus he made his way,

their coming cry, Smiting and slaying, through the astonished Mount, mount, and ride for jeopardy, - I'll save ranks,

you though I die ! Till he beheld, where, on a fiery bạrb, Ebba, performing well a soldier's part,

“Stand, noble steed! this hour of need, - be Dealt to the right and left his deadly blows.

gentle as a lamb; With mutual rage they met. The renegade I 'll kiss the foam from off thy mouth, – thy Displays a cimeter, the splendid gift

master dear I am, Of Walid from Damascus sent; its hilt

Mount, Juan, mount; whate'er betide, away the Embossed with gems, its blade of perfect steel,

brille fling, Which, like a mirror sparkling to the sun And plunge the rowels in his side. — My horse With dazzling splendor, flashed. The Goth ob- shall save my King !

jects His shield, and on its rim received the edge "Nay, never speak; my sires, Lord King, reDriven from its aim aside, and of its force

ceived their land from yours, 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

thine secures ; Aimed and rebated ; many a deadly blow, If I should fly, and thou, my King, be found Straight or reverse, delivered and repelled.

among the dead, Roderick at length with better speed hath reached How could I stand 'mong gentlemen, such scorn The apostate's turban, and through all its folds

on my gray head?

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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

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."

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 :
Ii 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.

“ The news I bring, fair lady,"
With sorrowful accent said he,
“ Is one you are not ready

So soon, alas ! to hear.
“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 ;
So there the thing remains.
ANONYMOUS (French). Translation



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Yea, a place with the fallen the living shall claim; We'll intwine in one wreath every glorious name, The Gordon, the Ramsay, the Hope, and the


All the broadswords of old Scotland ! etc. Count the rocks of the Spey, count the groves of

the Forth, 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.

e are not many, we who pressed

Beside the brave who fell that day;
But who of us has not confessed
He'd rather share their warrior rest
Than not have been at Monterey ?



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 «lescendants of Wallace, Montrose, and

O the broadswords of old Scotland ! etc.


O TIE charge at Balaklava !

O that rash and fatal charge !
Never was a fiercer, braver,
Than that charge at Balaklava,

On the battle's bloody marge !
All the day the Russian columns,

Fortress huge, and blazing banks, Poured their dread destructive volumes

On the French and English ranks,

On the gallant allied ranks!
Earth and sky seemed rent asunder
By the loud incessant thunder !
When a strange but stern command -
Needless, heedless, rash command
Came to Lucan's little band,
Scarce six hundred men and horses
Of those vast contending forces :-
“England 's lost unless you save her!
Charge the pass at Balaklava !”

O that rash and fatal charge,
On the battle's bloody marge !


We were not many,

we who stood Before the iron sleet that day ; Yet many a gallant spirit would



Far away the Russian Eagles

Drenched with fire and blood, like lava, Soar o'er smoking hill and dell,

Awful pass at Balaklava ! And their hordes, like howling beagles,

O that rash and fatal charge, Dense and countless, round them yell !

On that battle's bloody marge ! Thundering cannon, deadly mortar, Sweep the field in every quarter !

For now Russia's rallied forces, Never, since the days of Jesus,

Swarming hordes of Cossack horses, Trembled so the Chersonesus!

Trampling o'er the reeking corses, Here behold the Gallic Lilies

Drive the thinned assailants back,

Drive the feeble remnant back,
Stout St. Louis' golden Lilies
Float as erst at old Ramillies !

O'er their late heroic track !
And beside them, lo! the Lion !

Vain, alas! now rent and sundered, With her trophied Cross, is flying !

Vain your struggles, brave Two Hundred ! Glorious standards ! — shall they waver

Thrice your number lie asleep, On the field of Balaklava ?

In that valley dark and deep. No, by Heavens ! at that command

Weak and wounded you retire Sudden, rash, but stern command

From that hurricane of fire,
Charges Lucan's little band !

That tempestuous storm of fire,
Brave Six Hundred ! lo ! they charge,

But no soldiers, firmer, braver,
On the battle's bloody marge !

Ever trod the field of fame,

Than the Knights of Balaklava, Down yon deep and skirted valley,

Honor to each hero's name ! Where the crowded cannon play,

Yet their country long shall mourn Where the Czar's fierce cohorts rally,

For her rank so rashly shorn, Cossack, Calmuck, savage Kalli,

So gallantly, but madly shorn Down that gorge they swept away!

In that fierce and fatal charge,
Down that new Thermopylae,

On the battle's bloody marge.
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 !

So all day long the noise of battle rolled Gallant Nolan, brave as Roland

Among the mountains by the winter sea ; At the field of Roncesvalles,

Until King Arthur's Table, man by man, Dashes down the fatal valley,

Had fallen in Lyonesse about their lord, Dashes on the bolt of death,

King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep, Shouting with his latest breath,

The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, “Charge, then, gallants ! do not waver,

And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,

I broken chancel with a broken cross,
Charge the pass at Balaklava !”
O that rash and fatal charge,

That stood on a dark strait of barren land.
On the battle's bloody marge !

On one side lay the Ocean, and on one

Lay a great water, and the moon was full.
Now the bolts of volleyed thunder
Rend that little band asunder,

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : Steed and rider wildly screaming,

“ The sequel of to-day unsolders all Screaming wildly, sink away ;

The gooilliest fellowship of famous knights Late so proudly, proudly gleaming,

Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep Now but lifeless clods of clay,

They sleep — the men I loved. I think that we Now but bleeding clods of clay ! Shall nevermore, at any future time, Never, since the days of Jesus,

Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, Saw such sight the Cliersonesus !

Walking about the gardens and the halls Yet your remnant, brave Six Hundred, Of Camelot, as in the days that were. Presses onward, onward, onward,

I perish by this people which I made, Till they storm the bloody pass,

Though Merlin sware that I should come again Till, like brave Leonidas,

To rule once more ; but let what will be, be. They storm the deadly pass !

I am so deeply smitten throngh the helm Sabring Cossack, Calmuck, Kalli,

That without help I cannot last till morn. In that wild shot-rended valley,

Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,

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