"'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 The life of our hero away. 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." 'Twas thus old Peter did conclude His chronicle with curses fit. He spoke the tale in accents rude, In ruder verse I copied it. Perhaps the tale a moral bears, (All tales in time to this must come,) The story of two hundred years Writ on the parchment of a drum. What Peter told with drum and stick, Is endless theme for poet's pen: Is found in endless quartos thick, Enormous books by learned men. And ever since historian writ, And ever since a bard could sing, Doth each exalt with all his wit The noble art of murdering. We love to read the glorious page, How bold Achilles kill'd his foe: And Turnus, fell'd by Trojans' rage, Went howling to the shades below.