WHEN MOONLIKE ORE THE HAZURE SEAS.
LINES UPON MY SISTER'S PORTRAIT.
THE LEGEND OF ST. SOPHIA OF KIOFF.
MR. MOLONY'S ACCOUNT OF THE BALL.
THE WOLFE NEW BALLAD OF JANE RONEY AND MARY BROWN.
LINES ON A LATE HOSPICIOUS EWENT.*
THE LAMENTABLE BALLAD OF THE FOUNDLING OF SHOREDITCH.
THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM.
PART I.
At Paris, hard by the Maine barriers,
Whoever will choose to repair,
Midst a dozen of wooden-legged warriors
May haply fall in with old Pierre.
On the sunshiny bench of a tavern
He sits and he prates of old wars,
And moistens his pipe of tobacco
With a drink that is named after Mars.
The beer makes his tongue run the quicker,
And as long as his tap never fails,
Thus over his favorite liquor
Old Peter will tell his old tales.
Says he, "In my life's ninety summers
Strange changes and chances I've seen—
So here's to all gentlemen drummers
That ever have thump'd on a skin.
"Brought up in the art military
For four generations we are;
My ancestors drumm'd for King Harry,
The Huguenot lad of Navarre.
And as each man in life has his station
According as Fortune may fix,
While Condé was waving the baton,
My grandsire was trolling the sticks.
"Ah! those were the days for commanders!
What glories my grandfather won,
Ere bigots, and lackeys, and panders
The fortunes of France had undone!
In Germany, Flanders, and Holland—
What foeman resisted us then?
No; my grandsire was ever victorious,
My grandsire and Monsieur Turenne.
"He died: and our noble battalions
The jade fickle Fortune forsook;
And at Blenheim, in spite of our valiance,
The victory lay with Malbrook.
The news it was brought to King Louis;
Corbleu! how his Majesty swore
When he heard they had taken my grandsire:
And twelve thousand gentlemen more.
"At Namur, Ramillies, and Malplaquet