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I think I need not apologize to my readers, for introducing here a portion of Sir Walter Scot's beautiful poem of Waterloo :
On came the whirlwind-like the last
But fiercest sweep of tempest blast;
The war was wak'd anew.
Three hundred cannon mouths roared loud,
And from their throats with flash and cloud,
Their showers of iron threw.
Beneath their fire, in full career,
Rushed on the ponderous Cuirassier ;
The Cohorts' eagle flew.
Nor was one forward footstep staid,
Then wak'd their fire at once !
Then down went helm and lance,
And to augment the fray,
Forced their resistless way.
The clash of swords—the neigh of steeds.
And while amid their scattered band,
erce rider's bloody brand, Recoil'd in common rout and fear, Lancer, and Guard, and CuirassierHorsemen and Footma mingled host, Their leader fall’n-their standard lost.
“ So now the business of the field is o'er,
The trumpets sleep, and cannons cease to roar,
On the 19th, we proceeded about sixteen miles towards France, and entered a town, the name of which I have forgotten. We were billeted on the inhabitants, and obtained from our commissariat a supply of fresh provisions. I here got my wounded cheek dressed, and the piece of iron extracted ; I kept it for some time, and intended to have preserved it, as a momento of the battle, but I lost it afterwards at Paris. After a good night's rest, which to us was quite a luxury, we proceeded next day on our march. On entering France, an order was issued, by the Duke, strictly prohibiting