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It was here that the French cavalry charged, and cut to pieces the English squares.

· Narrative of a French Tourist.

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Ay, here such valorous deeds were done

As ne'er were done before ;
Ay, here the reddest wreath was won

That ever Gallia wore :
Since Ariosto's wondrous knight

Made all the Pagans dance,
There never dawned a day so bright

As Waterloo's on France.

The trumpet poured its deafening sound -

Flags fluttered on the gale;
And cannon roared, and heads flew round

As fast as summer hail :

The sabres flashed; with rage and fear

The steeds began to prance ; The English quaked from front to rear,

They never quake in France !

The cuirassiers rode in and out,

As fierce as wolves and bears;
’T was grand to see them slash about

Among the English squares ! And then the Polish lancer came,

Careering with his lance;No wonder Britain blushed for shame,

And ran away from France.

IV. 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,

Escaped by some strange chance ; Henceforth, I think he 'll hardly choose

To shew himself in France.

So Buonaparte pitched his tent

That day in Grovesnor Place;
And Ney rode straight to Parliament,

And broke the Speaker's mace.

“ Vive L'Empereur,” was said and sung,

From Peebles to Penzance ;
The Mayor and Aldermen were hung,

Which made folks laugh in France.


They pulled the Tower of London down;

They burned our wooden walls ;
They brought his Holiness to Town,

And lodged him in St. Paul's.
And Gog and Magog rubbed their eyes,

Awaking from a trance ;
And grumbled out, in great surprise,

“O mercy! we're in France !”


They sent a Regent to our Isle,

The little King of Rome;
And squibs and crackers all the while

Blazed in the Place Vendome.
And ever since, in arts and power

They're making great advance; They've had strong beer from that glad hour,

And sea-coal fires in France.

VIII. My uncle, Captain Flanigan,

Who lost a leg in Spain, Tells stories of a little man,

Who died at St. Helene.

But bless my heart! they can't be true,

I'm sure they ’re all romance ; John Bull was beat at Waterloo -

They'll swear to that in France !


A robe of sunlight hung o'er all thy bowers,
Fair City! as with music's stirring strain,-
Whose pattering echoes fell like summer-rain
Upon thy sleeping wave,—we neared thy towers
Grey with antiquity. On either shore,
Myriads of forms were glancing in the light,
And crowds expectant crowned each shining height,
As the gay vessel up thy haven bore;
Bright pennons glittered in the noontide ray,
And heaven and earth kept jubilee that day.
Alas! that man should mar a scene like this,
With vain aspirings after perfect bliss;
Some bright, ideal, ever distant good,
For which he 'll barter kindred, home, and blood !




I am more excellent than he : thou hast created me of fire, and hast created him of clay.

Speech of Eblis, in the Koran.

IN crossing the desert of Ajmere, in the autumn of 1817, in company with Lieutenant Murray of the 51st regiment, N. I., whose early death caused such universal grief in the army of India, we one evening encamped on the southern shore of the salt lake, which lies between Sirr and Khomanoh. The night was cold, and the morning which succeeded it still colder. Nevertheless, the Lieutenant was stirring with the dawn, and being of an active and curious disposition, had roused me from my morning slumbers, and prevailed on me to sally forth with him to explore the nature of the surrounding country, before the sun was actually above the horizon. Turning our back upon our little encampment, we

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