"Last week I heard his uncle boast He's sure to have the seals; I read it in the Morning Post, That he has dined at Peel's; You'll never see him any more, He's in a different set: 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 learn to flatter and forsake, 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; Be deaf to all his oaths and prayers, We've had enough of fleets and camps, Guns, glories, odes, gazettes, Triumphal arches, coloured lamps, 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 There was a time for borrowing, And now it's time to pay; And, oh, the bitter tears we wept The home affections, waged and lost The price that British glory cost! We've plenty left to hoist the sail Or mount the dangerous breach, 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 The trumpet poured its deafening sound, And cannon roared, and heads flew round As fast as summer hail; The sabres flashed their light of 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; 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 That night in Grosvenor Place, 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, They sent a Regent to our Isle, And squibs and crackers all the while They're making great advance ; My uncle, Captain Flanigan, Who died at St. Helène. 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. |