C’etoit un homme de cœur Insatiable de gloire; Lorsqu’il etoit le vainqueur _Il remportoit la victoire_. Les places qu’il attaquoit A peine osoient se défendre, Et jamais il ne manquoit _Celles qu’on lui voyait prendre_. Un devin pour deux testons Lui dit d’une voix hardie, Qu’il mourroit de là les monts, _S’il mourrait en Lombardie_. Il y mourut ce Heros, Personne aujourd’hui n’en doute; Si tôt qu’il eut les yeux clos, _Aussitot il ne vit goute_. Il fut par un triste sort, Blessé d’une main cruelle: On croit, puisqu’il en est mort, _Que la plaie etoit mortelle_. Regretté de ses soldats, Il mourut digne d’envie Et le jour de son trépas _Fut le dernier de sa vie_. J’ai lu dans les vieux écrits Qui contiennent son histoire, Qu’il iroit en Paradis _S’il etoit en Purgatoire_. ―――― Some verses of this song were translated, and published in _The Mirror_, November 8, 1823. They do not adhere very closely to the original. THE HAPPY MAN. La Gallisse now I wish to touch, Droll air! if I can strike it, I’m sure the song will please you much; That is, if you should like it. La Gallisse was indeed, I grant, Not used to any dainty, When he was born――but could not want, As long as he had plenty. Instructed with the greatest care, He always was well-bred, And never used a hat to wear, But when ’twas on his head. His temper was exceeding good, Just of his father’s fashion; And never quarrels broil’d his blood, Except when in a passion. His mind was on devotion bent, He kept with care each high day, And Holy Thursday always spent, The day before Good Friday. He liked good claret very well, I just presume to think it; For ere its flavour he could tell, He thought it best to drink it. Than doctors more he loved the cook, Though food would make him gross; And never any physic took, But when he took a dose. Oh, happy, happy is the swain The ladies so adore; For many followed in his train, Whene’er he walk’d before. Bright as the sun his flowing hair In golden ringlets shone; And no one could with him compare, If he had been alone. His talents I cannot rehearse, But every one allows, That whatsoe’er he wrote in verse No one could call it prose. He argued with precision nice, The learned all declare; And it was his decision wise, No horse could be a mare. His powerful logic would surprise, Amuse, and much delight. He prov’d that dimness of the eyes Was hurtful to the sight.