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“ 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:”-

No?-don't believe them yet.

“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-

You won't believe them yet !


(1830.) AYE, bear it hence, thou blessed child,

Though dire the burden be, And hide it in the pathless wild,

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,

Guns, glories, odes, gazettes,

Triumphal arches, coloured lamps,

Huzzas and epaulettes ;
We could not bear upon our head

Another leaf of bay;
That horrid Buonaparte's dead :

Yes, take the sword away,
We're weary of the noisy boasts

That pleased our patriot throngs ; We've long been dull to Gooch's toasts,

And tame to Dibdin's songs ;
We're quite content to rule the wave

Without a great display ;
We're known to be extremely brave ;

But take the sword away.
We give a shrug, when fife and drum

Play up a favourite air ;
We think our barracks are become

More ugly than they were ;
We laugh to see the banners float :

We loathe the charger's bray ;
We don't admire a scarlet coat;

Do take the sword away.
Let Portugal have rulers twain,

Let Greece go on with none,
Let Popery sink or swim in Spain

While we enjoy the fun;
Let Turkey tremble at the knout,

Let Algiers lose her Dey,
Let Paris turn her Bourbons out :

Bah ! take the sword away.
Our honest friends in Parliament

Are looking vastly sad ;

Our farmers say with one consent

It's all immensely bad ;
There was a time for borrowing,

And now it's time to pay ;
A budget is a serious thing ;

So take the sword away.

And, oh, the bitter tears we wept

In those our days of fame,-
The dread that o'er our heart-strings crept

With every post that came, -
The home affections, waged and lost

In every far-off fray,-
The price that British glory cost !

Ah, take the sword away!
We've plenty left to hoist the sail

Or mount the dangerous breach,
And Freedom breathes in every gale

That wanders round our beach ;
When duty bids us dare or die,

We'll fight, another day ;
But till we know the reason why,

Take--take the sword away.

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

As ne'er were done before ;

Aye, here the reddest wreath was won

That ever Gallia wore ;
Since Ariosto's wondrous knight

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

As Waterloo's on France. The trumpet poured its deafening sound,

Flags futtered on the gale,
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 ; 'Twas 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 !
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 show himself in France. So Buonaparte pitched his tent

That night in Grosvenor 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 folk laugh in France.

They pulled the Tower of London down,

They burnt our wooden walls,
They brought the Pope himself 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 su prise,

“Oh, 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 Vendôme;
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.

My uncle, Captain Flanigan,

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

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.

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