Ballads. William Makepeace Thackeray

The troops of the Emperor ran,

       And the Pope he tell down on his knees.—

       Pierre's comrades here call'd a fresh bottle,

       And clubbing together their wealth,

       They drank to the Army of Italy,

       And General Bonaparte's health."

       The drummer now bared his old breast,

       And show'd us a plenty of scars,

       Rude presents that Fortune had made him,

       In fifty victorious wars.

       "This came when I follow'd bold Kleber—

       'Twas shot by a Mameluke gun;

       And this from an Austrian sabre,

       When the field of Marengo was won.

       "My forehead has many deep furrows,

       But this is the deepest of all:

       A Brunswicker made it at Jena,

       Beside the fair river of Saal.

       This cross, 'twas the Emperor gave it;

       (God bless him!) it covers a blow;

       I had it at Austerlitz fight,

       As I beat on my drum in the snow.

       "'Twas thus that we conquer'd and fought;

       But wherefore continue the story?

       There's never a baby in France

       But has heard of our chief and our glory—

       But has heard of our chief and our fame,

       His sorrows and triumphs can tell,

       How bravely Napoleon conquer'd,

       How bravely and sadly he fell.

       "It makes my old heart to beat higher,

       To think of the deeds that I saw;

       I follow'd bold Ney through the fire,

       And charged at the side of Murat."

       And so did old Peter continue

       His story of twenty brave years;

       His audience follow'd with comments—

       Rude comments of curses and tears.

       He told how the Prussians in vain

       Had died in defence of their land;

       His audience laugh'd at the story,

       And vow'd that their captain was grand!

       He had fought the red English, he said,

       In many a battle of Spain;

       They cursed the red English, and prayed

       To meet them and fight them again.

       He told them how Russia was lost,

       Had winter not driven them back;

       And his company cursed the quick frost,

       And doubly they cursed the Cossack.

       He told how the stranger arrived;

       They wept at the tale of disgrace:

       And they long'd but for one battle more,

       The stain of their shame to efface!

       "Our country their hordes overrun,

       We fled to the fields of Champagne,

       And fought them, though twenty to one,

       And beat them again and again!

       Our warrior was conquer'd at last;

       They bade him his crown to resign;

       To fate and his country he yielded

       The rights of himself and his line.

       "He came, and among us he stood,

       Around him we press'd in a throng:

       We could not regard him for weeping,

       Who had led us and loved us so long.

       'I have led you for twenty long years,'

       Napoleon said, ere he went

       'Wherever was honor I found you,

       And with you, my sons, am content!

       "'Though Europe against me was arm'd,

       Your chiefs and my people are true;

       I still might have struggled with fortune,

       And baffled all Europe with you.

       "'But France would have suffer'd the while,

       'Tis best that I suffer alone;

       I go to my place of exile,

       To write of the deeds we have done.

       "'Be true to the king that they give you,

       We may not embrace ere we part;

       But, General, reach me your hand,

       And press me, I pray, to your heart.'

       "He called for our battle standard;

       One kiss to the eagle he gave.

       'Dear eagle!' he said, 'may this kiss

       Long sound in the hearts of the brave!'

       'Twas thus that Napoleon left us;

       Our people were weeping and mute,

       As he pass'd through the lines of his guard,

       And our drums beat the notes of salute.

      . … .

       "I look'd when the drumming was o'er,

       I look'd, but our hero was gone;

       We were destined to see him once more,

       When we fought on the Mount of St. John.

       The Emperor rode through our files;

       'Twas June, and a fair Sunday morn;

       The lines of our warriors for miles

       Stretch'd wide through the Waterloo corn.

       "In thousands we stood on the plain,

       The red-coats were crowning the height;

       'Go scatter yon English,' he said;

       'We'll sup, lads, at Brussels tonight.'

       We answered his voice with a shout;

       Our eagles were bright in the sun;

       Our drums and our cannon spoke out,

       And the thundering battle begun.

       "One charge to another succeeds,

       Like waves that a hurricane bears;

       All day do our galloping steeds

       Dash fierce on the enemy's squares.

       At noon we began the fell onset:

       We charged up the Englishman's hill;

       And madly we charged it at sunset—

       His banners were floating there still.

       "—Go to! I will tell you no more;

       You know how the battle was lost.

       Ho! fetch me a beaker of wine,

       And, comrades, I'll give you a toast.

       I'll give you a curse on all traitors,

       Who plotted our Emperor's ruin;

       And a curse on those red-coated English,

       Whose bayonets help'd our undoing.

       "A curse on those British assassins,

       Who order'd the slaughter of Ney;

       A curse on Sir Hudson, who tortured