Poor Bonaparte, now, every day, Endeavoured to be wondrous gay; To concerts, plays, and balls, he went, To hide, it seems, his discontent. Folks thought hostilities would cease, For gaiety’s a sign of peace. But soon, alas! returned his gloom, And now our hero kept his room. One day he wish’d to be alone, And said he was at home to none, When suddenly there came a knock, Which dealt around a dreadful shock-- His counsellor of State, ’tis said, Saw a tall man dressed all in red! ‘Your business, Sir?’--‘A secret that-- I must see Bonaparte, that’s flat’-- ‘He’s not at home,’ was the reply, The red man answer’d--‘that’s a lie!’ The Counsellor to Boney ran, Apprising Nap of this red man-- How very great the Emp’ror’s dread-- ‘Art sure? and was he dress’d in red?’ Affecting then a kind of grin-- ‘No matter--shew the red man in.’ The red man, tho’, as people say, Ne’er waited to be shewn the way, For in he bolted--and, what’s more, Immediately he clos’d the door-- The Counsellor of State, so shock’d His ear, then, at the keyhole cock’d, And tho’ the red, tall, man he fear’d, This conversation he o’erheard-- ‘Well, Emp’ror Boney--pray how do you? This is my third appearance to you, At Egypt once--next at Wagram-- You must remember who I am.’ ‘Yes, I remember, but what is it Has now induced this sudden visit?’ ‘What is it! Nap, how can you ask? Have you accomplish’d, pray, your task? Four years, I for that purpose granted, It was the very time you wanted; And then I said--and say it now-- No longer time wou’d I allow; ’Twas quite sufficient, as you said, And solemnly a vow you made, That either Europe you’d subdue, Or peace shou’d in that time ensue; I told you, if I tricks foresaw, That my protection I’d withdraw, And therefore am I come again To tell you but three months remain; If Europe then, you have not got, Or peace confirm’d--you’ll go to _pot_.’ Our hero seem’d quite panic struck, ‘Alas!’ said he, ‘I’ve had no luck-- I can’t in three months undertake An honourable peace to make-- A longer period, therefore, fix, Let the three months, I pray, be six.’ ‘It cannot be--I’ll grant no more’-- Nap followed him unto the door-- ‘Five months, I’m sure, you may allow’-- ‘I won’t--mark well your sacred vow, One or the other you must do-- Or else, depend on it you’ll rue.’ ‘Then grant _four_ months.’--‘It cannot be-- Conquer, or be at peace, in _three_-- Such was the task you undertook’-- Then giving a contemptuous look, ‘_Three months_--no longer--so good-bye’-- He said--nor waited a reply. With indignation Boney burn’d, While to his cab’net he return’d-- And there, as many people say, He sullenly remain’d all day. The English gave Napoleon the character of being very superstitious, and I believe, even now, ‘Napoleon’s Book of Fate,’ and ‘Napoleon’s Dream Book,’ are procurable.