"Twas thus that we conquered 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 conquered, How bravely and sadly he fell.

'It makes my old heart to beat higher,
To think of the deeds that I saw;
I followed 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 followed with comments

Rude comments of curses and tears.

He told how the Prussians in vain

Had died in defence of their land;

His audience laughed at the story,

And vowed 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;

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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 longed 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 conquered 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 pressed 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,

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And with you, my sons, am content.

Though Europe against me was armed,
Your chiefs and my people are true;

I still might have struggled with fortune,
And baffled all Europe with you.

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"But France would have suffered the while; 365

'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 old 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 passed through the lines of his guard,
And our drums beat the notes of salute.

'I looked when our drumming was o'er, I looked, but our hero was gone;

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We were destined to see him once more,

When we fought on the Mount of St. John.°

The Emperor rode through our files;

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'Twas June, and a fair Sunday morn.

The lines of our warriors for miles

Stretched wide through the Waterloo corn.

'In thousands we stood on the plain,

The redcoats were crowning the height;

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"Go scatter yon English," he said;

"We'll sup, lads, at Brussels to-night."
We answered his voice with a shout;
Our eagles were bright in the sun;
Our drums and our cannons 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;

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And madly we charged it at sunset
His banners were floating there still.

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Go to! I will tell you no more;

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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 helped our undoing.

'A curse on those British assassins

Who ordered the slaughter of Ney;° A curse on Sir Hudson, who tortured The life of our hero away.

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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.'

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THE DESERTED VILLAGE

OLIVER GOLDSMITH

OLIVER GOLDSMITH (1728-1774) was born at Pallas, County Longford, Ireland. He was the son of a poor village pastor who, however, in some way found means to send him to Trinity College, Dublin. He was too indolent and fond of pleasure to shine as a scholar. After leaving college he pretended to study medicine first at Edinburgh and then at Leyden, but it pleased him best to wander idly over Europe playing 'merry tunes' on his flute for food and lodging. He finally made his way to London and after failing in one thing after another, he came to depend for a livelihood entirely upon literature. Throughout his life he was an impractical and self-indulgent man, but his observing and sympathetic nature, coupled with an easy and charming style, have made for him an enduring name in English literature. In spite of his weaknesses his real worth won for him the friendship of the foremost men of his day, chief among whom were Garrick, Johnson, Burke, and Reynolds. His best-known works are the two poems, 'The Traveller' and 'The Deserted Village,' the two comedies, 'The Good-natured Man' and 'She Stoops to Conquer,' and the charming 'Vicar of Wakefield' which Carlyle called 'the best of all modern idylls.'

SWEET Auburn!° loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed. —
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,

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Seats of my youth, when every sport could please –