Us, the men, the mean, the rank and file? Us, tramping broken, wounded, muddy, dying, Having no hope of duchies or endowments, Marching along and never getting further, Too simple and too ignorant to covet The famous marshal's baton in our knapsacks? What about us, who marched through every weather, Sweating but fearless, shivering without trembling, Kept on our feel by trumpet-calls, by fever, And by the songs we sang through conquered countries? Us upon whom for seventeen years--just think!-- The knapsack, sabre, turn-screw, flint, and gun, Beside the burden of an empty belly, Made the sweet weight of five and fifty pounds? Us, who wore bearskins in the burning tropics And marched bareheaded through the snows of Russia, Who trotted casually from Spain to Austria? Us who, to free our travel-weary legs, Like carrots from the slough of miry roads, Often with both hands had to lug them out? Us, who, not having jujubes for our coughs, Took day-long foot-baths in the freezing Danube? Who just had leisure when some officer Came riding up, and gayly cried "To arms! The enemy is on us! Drive him back!" To eat a slice of rook--and raw at that, Or quickly mix a delicate ice-cream With melted snow and a dead horse's blood? Us, who-- THE DUKE. At last! THE LACKEY. At night had little fear Of bullets, but a holy dread of waking Cannibals; us-- THE DUKE. At last--! THE LACKEY. Who marched and fought Fasting, and only stopped-- THE DUKE. At last I see one! THE LACKEY. To fight--and then stopped fighting, four to one, Only to march; and stopped again to fight! Marching and fighting, naked, starved, but merry-- Don't you suppose we, too, were sick of it? MARMONT. But-- THE LACKEY. Though we owed him precious little thanks, Nevertheless 'twas we whose hearts were true, While you were ambling at the King's right hand. In short, your Highness, in the great canteen, Where souls are fed on glory, he may find [_Pointing to_ MARMONT.] His laurels are not worth our small potatoes. MARMONT. Who is this Lackey with the veteran's growl? THE LACKEY. John Seraph Peter Flambeau, called Flambart-- "The glowing coal"--ex-sergeant grenadier. Mamma from Picardy; Papa a Breton. Joined at fourteen, two Germinal, year Three. Baptised, Marengo; got my corporal's stripes The fifteenth Fructidor, year Twelve. Silk hose And sergeant's cane, steeped in my tears of joy. July fourteenth, year Eighteen hundred and nine, At Schönbrunn, for the Guards were here to serve The sacred person of your Majesty. Sixteen years' service, seen sixteen campaigns, Fought Austerlitz, fought Eylau, Somo-Siera, Eckmühl, Essling, Wagram, Smolensk, and so forth. Thirty-two feats of arms, a lot of wounds, And only fought for glory and dry bread. MARMONT. Surely you will not listen to him thus? THE DUKE. No, sir, I will not listen thus, but standing! MARMONT.