"Last week I heard his uncle boast He's sure to have the seals; He cannot eat at half-past four: "In short, he'll soon be false and cold, And infinitely wise; He'll grow next year extremely old, He'll tell enormous lies; He'll learn to flatter and forsake, To feign and to forget: O whisper-or my heart will break- MARS DISARMED BY LOVE. (1830.) AYE, bear it hence, thou blessed child, Or drown it in the sea; The ruthless murderer prays and swears; So let him swear and pray; Be deaf to all his oaths and prayers, And take the sword away. We've had enough of fleets and camps, Triumphal arches, coloured lamps, Huzzas and epaulettes ; We could not bear upon our head That horrid Buonaparte's dead: We're weary of the noisy boasts We're known to be extremely brave; We give a shrug, when fife and drum We think our barracks are become Let Portugal have rulers twain, Let Paris turn her Bourbons out: Our honest friends in Parliament Our farmers say with one consent And, oh, the bitter tears we wept The dread that o'er our heart-strings crept The home affections, waged and lost In every far-off fray,— The price that British glory cost! We've plenty left to hoist the sail WATERLOO. "On this spot the French cavalry charged, and broke the English squares!"-Narrative of a French Tourist. "Is it true, think you?"-Winter's Tale. AYE, here such valorous deeds were done Aye, here the reddest wreath was won Since Ariosto's wondrous knight The trumpet poured its deafening sound, And cannon roared, and heads flew round The sabres flashed their light of fear, The English quaked from front to rear,— The cuirassiers rode in and out As fierce as wolves and bears; No wonder Britain blushed for shame And ran away from France! The Duke of York was killed that day; The King was sadly scarred; Lord Eldon, as he ran away, Was taken by the Guard; Poor Wellington with fifty Blues So Buonaparte pitched his tent And Ney rode straight to Parliament The Mayor and Aldermen were hung, They pulled the Tower of London down, They brought the Pope himself to town, And Gog and Magog rubbed their eyes, And grumbled out in great su prise, Oh, mercy! we're in France! " They sent a Regent to our Isle, They're making great advance ; My uncle, Captain Flanigan, But bless my heart, they can't be true; John Bull was beat at Waterloo ! They'll swear to that in France. |