Of course they drank with a right good will, For they never missed a chance "to fill." And yet a few, I'm sorry to own, Made side-remarks in an undertone, Like those we hear, when, nowadays, Good-natured friends, with seeming praise, Contrive to damn. In the midst of the hum They heard a loud and slashing thrum: 'Twas the king: and each his breath drew in Till you might have heard a falling pin. Some little excuse, at first, he made, While over the lute his fingers strayed:-- "You know my way,--as the fancies come, I improvise."--There was ink on his thumb. That morning, alone, good hours he spent In writing despatches never sent. RICHARD. There is pleasure when bright eyes are glancing And Beauty is willing; but more When the war-horse is gallantly prancing And snuffing the battle afar,-- When the foe, with his banner advancing, Is sounding the clarion of war. Where the battle is deadly and gory, Where foeman 'gainst foeman is pressed, Where the path is before me to glory, Is pleasure for me, and the best. Let me live in proud chivalry's story, Or die with my lance in its rest! The plaudits followed him loud and free As he tossed the lute to Marcadee, Who caught it featly, bowing low, And said, "My liege, I may not know To improvise; but I'll give a song, The song of our camp,--we've known it long. It suits not well this tinkle and thrum, But needs to be heard with a rattling drum. Ho, there! Tambour!--He knows it well,-- 'The Brabançon!'--Now make it tell; Let your elbows now with a spirit wag In the outside roll and the double drag." MARCADEE. I'm but a soldier of fortune, you see: Huzza! Glory and love,--they are nothing to me: Ha, ha! Glory's soon faded, and love is soon cold: Give me the solid, reliable gold: Hurrah for the gold! Country or king I have none, I am free: Huzza! Patriot's quarrel,--'tis harvest for me: Ha, ha! A soldier of fortune, my creed is soon told,-- I'd fight for the Devil, to pocket his gold: Hurrah for the gold! He turned to the king, as he finished the verse, And threw on the table a heavy purse With a pair of dice; another, I trow, Still lurked _incog._ for a lucky throw:-- "'Tis mine; 'twas thine. If the king would play, Perchance he'd find his revenge to-day. Gambling, I own, is a fault, a sin; I always repent--unless I win." _Le jeu est fait._--"Well thrown! eleven! My purse is gone.--Double-six, by heaven!"