Part 8 (2/2)
Farewell, the storm-voiced Steed! the hero Horse That snuffs the battle's sulphury breath afar; The proudest form, the best compacted force, That hurls the earthquake on the field of war.
No more I'll ride, on his terrific course, That meteor maddened through the lines ajar, While the foe, blanching at the onset, reels Before his breath and thunder of his heels.
Farewell, volcanic din, Olympian brattle, The bursting bomb, the thousand-throated cheer Tartarean roar, the volleyed rifle rattle, The rocket's lightning line of fire and fear.
I sought my fate 'mid foes in brilliant battle, Gorging with souls the hungry atmosphere; I find my fate from one cold coward's command, A dozen bullets, and a friendly hand.
Thus I, once Michael Ney, Marshal of France, And soon a heap of dust, dishonored, sink;-- I, who have vanned the Empire's fierce advance In triple continents of fame to drink, And bore its backward but still levelled lance From Borodino to the icy brink Of Beresina; thence defiance hurled To the linked thunders of th' embattled world.
No bandage bring. Stark-eyed the hero dies.
Do you not know that thus for twenty years I've faced both ball and bullet!--for no prize But weal of France, my country? In man's ears, Yea and before G.o.d's all-beholding eyes, I swear I never wronged her. But Death nears.
Marshal no more, behold a man expire!
So now, make ready! Aim! Dear comrades, fire!
THE LILY LAND OF FRANCE.
With pensive memories We part the Ocean foam, To find 'neath summer skies A country and a home.
O lily land of France, Farewell! Farewell, Paris! (_Pa-ree_) Farewell to Life's romance!
Welcome the sounding sea!
Soon, soon, our fading forms Recede into the sea, Which, dark with all its storms, Will veil our hearts from thee.
O lily land of France, Farewell! Farewell, Paris!
Farewell to Life's romance!
Welcome the sounding sea!
In vain, in farther climes, Athwart the sweeping sea, We seek, in other times, The heaven we've lost in thee.
O lily land of France, Farewell! Farewell, Paris!
Farewell to Life's romance!
Welcome the sounding sea!
THE THREE P'S.
THE PRATIE, THE PIG AND POTEEN.
'Tis daily this baste Will prosade to the fayste, The best that Ould Oireland has seen; The P's are but three, But they're plenty for me,-- The Pratie, the Pig, the Poteen.
The Pratie, in place, Has an iligant face, That my mouth opens wide to let in, But, like Widow Machree, He's so glad to see me, That he laughs himself out of his shkin.
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