A curse on all Russians--I hate them-- On all Prussian and Austrian fry; And oh! but I pray we may meet them, And fight them again ere I die."

'Twas thus old Peter did conclude His chronicle with curses fit.

He spoke the tale in accents rude, In ruder verse I copied it.

Perhaps the tale a moral bears, (All tales in time to this must come,) The story of two hundred years Writ on the parchment of a drum.

What Peter told with drum and stick, Is endless theme for poet's pen: Is found in endless quartos thick, Enormous books by learned men.

And ever since historian writ, And ever since a bard could sing, Doth each exalt with all his wit The n.o.ble art of murdering.

We love to read the glorious page, How bold Achilles kill'd his foe: And Turnus, fell'd by Trojans' rage, Went howling to the shades below.

How G.o.dfrey led his red-cross knights, How mad Orlando slash'd and slew; There's not a single bard that writes But doth the glorious theme renew.

And while, in fashion picturesque, The poet rhymes of blood and blows, The grave historian at his desk Describes the same in cla.s.sic prose.

Go read the works of Reverend c.o.x, You'll duly see recorded there The history of the self-same knocks Here roughly sung by Drummer Pierre.

Of battles fierce and warriors big, He writes in phrases dull and slow, And waves his cauliflower wig, And shouts "Saint George for Marlborow!"

Take Doctor Southey from the shelf, An LL. D.--a peaceful man; Good Lord, how doth he plume himself Because we beat the Corsican!

From first to last his page is filled With stirring tales how blows were struck.

He shows how we the Frenchmen kill'd, And praises G.o.d for our good luck.

Some hints, 'tis true, of politics The doctors give and statesman's art: Pierre only bangs his drum and sticks, And understands the b.l.o.o.d.y part.

He cares not what the cause may be, He is not nice for wrong and right; But show him where's the enemy, He only asks to drum and fight.

They bid him fight,--perhaps he wins.

And when he tells the story o'er, The honest savage brags and grins, And only longs to fight once more.

But luck may change, and valor fail, Our drummer, Peter, meet reverse, And with a moral points his tale-- The end of all such tales--a curse.

Last year, my love, it was my hap Behind a grenadier to be, And, but he wore a hairy cap, No taller man, methinks, than me.

Prince Albert and the Queen, G.o.d wot, (Be blessings on the glorious pair!) Before us pa.s.sed, I saw them not, I only saw a cap of hair.

Your orthodox historian puts In foremost rank the soldier thus, The red-coat bully in his boots, That hides the march of men from us.

He puts him there in foremost rank, You wonder at his cap of hair: You hear his sabre's cursed clank, His spurs are jingling everywhere.

Go to! I hate him and his trade: Who bade us so to cringe and bend, And all G.o.d's peaceful people made To such as him subservient?

Tell me what find we to admire In epaulets and scarlet coats.

In men, because they load and fire, And know the art of cutting throats?

Ah, gentle, tender lady mine!

The winter wind blows cold and shrill, Come, fill me one more gla.s.s of wine, And give the silly fools their will.

And what care we for war and wrack, How kings and heroes rise and fall; Look yonder,* in his coffin black, There lies the greatest of them all!

To pluck him down, and keep him up, Died many million human souls; 'Tis twelve o'clock, and time to sup, Bid Mary heap the fire with coals.

He captured many thousand guns; He wrote "The Great" before his name; And dying, only left his sons The recollection of his shame.

Though more than half the world was his, He died without a rood his own; And borrowed from his enemies Six foot of ground to lie upon.

He fought a thousand glorious wars, And more than half the world was his, And somewhere now, in yonder stars, Can tell, mayhap, what greatness is.

1841.

* This ballad was written at Paris at the time of the Second Funeral of Napoleon.

ABD-EL-KADER AT TOULON.

OR, THE CAGED HAWK.

No more, thou lithe and long-winged hawk, of desert-life for thee; No more across the sultry sands shalt thou go swooping free: Blunt idle talons, idle beak, with spurning of thy chain, Shatter against thy cage the wing thou ne'er may'st spread again.

Long, sitting by their watchfires, shall the Kabyles tell the tale Of thy dash from Ben Halifa on the fat Metidja vale; How thou swept'st the desert over, bearing down the wild El Riff, From eastern Beni Salah to western Ouad Shelif;

How thy white burnous welit streaming, like the storm-rack o'er the sea, When thou rodest in the vanward of the Moorish chivalry; How thy razzia was a whirlwind, thy onset a simoom, How thy sword-sweep was the lightning, dealing death from out the gloom!

Nor less quick to slay in battle than in peace to spare and save, Of brave men wisest councillor, of wise councillors most brave; How the eye that flashed destruction could beam gentleness and love, How lion in thee mated lamb, how eagle mated dove!

Availed not or steel or shot 'gainst that charmed life secure, Till cunning France, in last resource, tossed up the golden lure; And the carrion buzzards round him stooped, faithless, to the cast, And the wild hawk of the desert is caught and caged at last.

Weep, maidens of Zerifah, above the laden loom!

Scar, chieftains of Al Elmah, your cheeks in grief and gloom!

Sons of the Beni Snazam, throw down the useless lance, And stoop your necks and bare your backs to yoke and scourge of France!

Twas not in fight they bore him down; he never cried aman; He never sank his sword before the PRINCE OF FRANGHISTAN; But with traitors all around him, his star upon the wane, He heard the voice of ALLAH, and he would not strive in vain.

They gave him what he asked them; from king to king he spake, As one that plighted word and seal not knoweth how to break; "Let me pa.s.s from out my deserts, be't mine own choice where to go, I brook no fettered life to live, a captive and a show."

And they promised, and he trusted them, and proud and calm he came, Upon his black mare riding, girt with his sword of fame.

Good steed, good sword, he rendered both unto the Frankish throng; He knew them false and fickle--but a Prince's word is strong.

How have they kept their promise? Turned they the vessel's prow Unto Acre, Alexandria, as they have sworn e'en now?

Not so: from Oran northwards the white sails gleam and glance, And the wild hawk of the desert is borne away to France!

Where Toulon's white-walled lazaret looks southward o'er the wave, Sits he that trusted in the word a son of Louis gave.