"They taught him how to turn his toes, And stand as stiff as starch; I thought that it was love and May, But it was love and March!

"A sorry March indeed to leave The friends he might have kep',-- No March of Intellect it was, But quite a foolish step.

"O prithee tell, good sentinel, If hereabout he lies?

I want a corpse with reddish hair, And very sweet blue eyes."

Her sorrow on the sentinel Appear'd to deeply strike:-- "Walk in," he said, "among the dead, And pick out which you like."

And soon she picked out Peter Stone, Half turned into a corse; A cannon was his bolster, and His mattrass was a horse.

"O Peter Stone, O Peter Stone, Lord, here has been a skrimmage!

What have they done to your poor breast That used to hold my image?"

"O Patty Head, O Patty Head, You're come to my last kissing; Before I'm set in the Gazette As wounded, dead, and missing!

"Alas! a splinter of a shell Right in my stomach sticks; French mortars don't agree so well With stomachs as French bricks.

"This very night a merry dance At Brussels was to be;-- Instead of opening a ball, A ball has open'd me.

"Its billet every bullet has, And well it does fulfil it;-- I wish mine hadn't come so straight.

But been a 'crooked billet.'

"And then there came a cuirassier And cut me on the chest;-- He had no pity in his heart, For he had _steel'd his breast_.

"Next thing a lancer, with his lance, Began to thrust away; I call'd for quarter, but, alas!

It was not Quarter-day.

"He ran his spear right through my arm, Just here above the joint;-- O Patty dear, it was no joke, Although it had a point.

"With loss of blood I fainted off, As dead as women do-- But soon by charging over me, The _Coldstream_ brought me to.

"With kicks and cuts, and balls and blows, I throb and ache all over; I'm quite convinc'd the field of Mars Is not a field of clover!

"O why did I a soldier turn For any royal Guelph?

I might have been a Butcher, and In business for myself!

"O why did I the bounty take?

(And here he gasp'd for breath) My shillingsworth of 'list is nail'd Upon the door of death!

"Without a coffin I shall lie And sleep my sleep eternal: Not ev'n a _shell_--my only chance Of being made a _Kernel_!

"O Patty dear, our wedding bells Will never ring at Chester!

Here I must lie in Honor's bed, That isn't worth a _tester_!

"Farewell, my regimental mates, With whom I used to dress!

My corps is changed, and I am now In quite another mess.

"Farewell, my Patty dear, I have No dying consolations, Except, when I am dead, you'll go And see th' Illuminations."

A LAY OF REAL LIFE

"Some are born with a wooden spoon in their mouths, and some with a golden ladle." GOLDSMITH.

"Some are born with tin rings in their noses, and with silver ones." SILVERSMITH.

Who ruined me ere I was born, Sold every acre, grass or corn, And left the next heir all forlorn?

My Grandfather.

Who said my mother was no nurse.

And physicked me and made me worse, Till infancy became a curse?

My Grandmother.

Who left me in my seventh year, A comfort to my mother dear, And Mr. Pope, the overseer?

My Father.

Who let me starve, to buy her gin, Till all my bones came through my skin, Then called me "ugly little sin?"

My Mother.

Who said my mother was a Turk, And took me home--and made me work, But managed half my meals to shirk?

My Aunt.

Who "of all earthly things" would boast, "He hated others' brats the most,"

And therefore made me feel my post?

My Uncle.

Who got in scrapes, an endless score, And always laid them at my door, Till many a bitter bang I bore?

My Cousin.

Who took me home when mother died, Again with father to reside, Black shoes, clean knives, run far and wide?

My Stepmother.

Who marred my stealthy urchin joys And when I played cried "What a noise?"-- Girls always hector over boys-- My Sister.

Who used to share in what was mine, Or took it all, did he incline, 'Cause I was eight, and he was nine?

My Brother.

Who stroked my head, and said "Good lad,"

And gave me sixpence, "all he had"; But at the stall the coin was bad?

My Godfather.

Who, gratis, shared, my social glass, But when misfortune came to pass, Referr'd me to the pump? Alas!

My Friend.

Through all this weary world, in brief, Who ever sympathized with grief, Or shared my joy--my sole relief?

Myself.