Now it happen'd just then That Field-Marshal

Turenne

Was a good deal in want of "some active young men,"

To fill up the gaps Which through sundry mishaps, Had been made in his ranks by a certain "Great Condé," A General unrivall'd-at least in his own day

Whose valour was such, That he did not care much If he fought with the French, -or the Spaniards,-or Dutch,

A fact which has stamped him a rather "Cool hand," Being nearly related to Louis le Grand.

It had been all the same had that King been his

brother;

He fought sometimes with one, and sometimes with another;

For war, so exciting, He took such delight in,
He did not care whom he fought, so he was fighting.
And, as I've just said, had amused himself then
By tickling the tail of Field-Marshal Turenne ;
Since which, the Field-Marshal's most pressing concern
Was to tickle some other Chief's tail in his turn.

What a fine thing a battle is!-not one of those
Which one saw at the late Mr. Andrew Ducrow's,
Where a dozen of scene-shifters, drawn up in rows,
Would a dozen more scene-shifters boldly oppose,

Taking great care their blows Did not injure their
foes,

And alike, save in colour and cut of their clothes,

Which were varied, to give more effect to "Tableaux,"
While Stickney the Great Flung the gauntlet to
Fate,

And made us all tremble, so gallantly did he come
On to encounter bold General Widdicombe-
But a real good fight, like Pultowa, or Lützen,
(Which Gustavus the Great ended all his disputes in,)
Or that which Suwarrow engaged without boots in,
Or Dettingen, Fontenoy, Blenheim, or Minden,
Or the one Mr. Campbell describes, Hohenlinden,

Where "the sun was low," The ground all over

snow,

And dark as mid-winter the swift Iser's flow, -
Till its colour was altered by General Moreau:
While the big drum was heard in the dead of the night,
Which rattled the Bard out of bed in a fright,
And he ran up the steeple to look at the fight,

"Twas in just such another one, (Names only bother

one

Dutch ones indeed are sufficient to smother one-)
In the Netherlands somewhere-I cannot say where-

Suffice it that there La Fortune de guerre
Gave a cast of her calling to our Mousquetaire.

One fine morning, in short, François Xavier Auguste,
After making some scores of his foes "bite the dust,"
Got a mouthful himself of the very same crust:
And though, as the Bard says, "No law is more just

Than for Necis artifices," so they call'd fiery
Soldados at Rome, -" arte suâ perire,"

Yet Fate did not draw This poetical law
To its fullest extent in the case of St. Foix.
His Good Genius most probably found out some flaw,

And diverted the shot From some deadlier spot To a bone which, I think, to the best of my memory, 's Call'd by Professional men the "os femoris;" And the ball being one of those named from its shape, And some fancied resemblance it bears to the grape,

St. Foix went down, With a groan and a frown, And a hole in his small-clothes the size of a crown. -Stagger'd a bit By this "palpable hit,"

He turn'd on his face, and went off in a fit.

Yes! a Battle's a very fine thing while you're fighting, These same Ups-and-Downs are so very exciting.

But a sombre sight is a Battle-field

To the sad survivor's sorrowing eye,
Where those, who scorn'd to fly or yield,

In one promiscuous carnage lie;
When the cannon's roar

ar Is heard no more,

And the thick dun smoke has roll'd away,
And the victor comes for a last survey
Of the well-fought field of yesterday!

No triumphs flush that haughty brow, -
No proud exulting look is there,-

His eagle glance is humbled now,
As, earthward bent, in anxious care
It seeks the form whose stalwart pride
But yester-morn was by his side !

And there it lies!-on yonder bank
Of corses, which themselves had breath
But yester-morn-now cold and dank,
With other dews than those of death!
Powerless as it had ne'er been born
The hand that clasp'd his-yester-morn!

And there are widows wand'ring there,
That roam the blood-besprinkled plain,
And listen in their dumb despair

For sounds they ne'er may hear again!
One word, however faint and low, -
Ay, e'en a groan, -were music now!

And this is Glory! - Fame!

But, pshaw!

Miss Muse, you're growing sentimental;
Besides, such things we never saw;
In fact they're merely Continental.
And then your Ladyship forgets
Some widows came for epaulettes.

So go back to your canter; for one, I declare,

Is now fumbling about our capsized Mousquetaire, A beetle-browed hag, With a knife and a bag, And an old tatter'd bonnet which, thrown back, discloses The ginger complexion, and one of those noses Peculiar to females named Levy and Moses,

Such as nervous folks still, when they come in their

way, shun,

Old vixen-faced tramps of the Hebrew persuasion.

You remember, I trust, François Xavier Auguste, Had uncommon fine limbs, and a very fine bust. Now there's something I cannot tell what it may beAbout good-looking gentlemen turn'd twenty-three, Above all when laid up with a wound in the knee, Which affects female hearts in no common degree, With emotions in which many feelings combine, Very easy to fancy, though hard to define;

Ugly or pretty, Stupid or witty,

Young or old, they experience in country or city, What's clearly not Love-yet it's warmer than PityAnd some such a feeling, no doubt, 'tis that stays The hand you may see that old Jezebel raise,

Arm'd with the blade, So oft used in her trade, The horrible calling e'en now she is plying, Despoiling the dead, and despatching the dying! For these "nimble Conveyancers," after such battles, Regarding as treasure trove all goods and chattels, Think nought, in "perusing and settling" the titles, So safe as six inches of steel in the vitals.