Next week dey hear from Paris, Und reat in de Gaulois Of de most adrocious action De vorlt vas efer saw. How de Uhlan cannibalen, Dis vile und awful prood, Hafe killt a nople Frantschman, Und cut him oop for food. "Ja - shop him indo sausage, Und coot him indo ham; Und schwear dey'll serfe all oders Exacdly so - py tam! Sons of France, awake to glory, Let your anciend valor shine! Und shweep dis Prussian vermin Het und dails indo de Rhine!" VI. BREITMANN'S LAST PARTY. For fear of some missed onder standings, I vould shtate, dat dis is only mean de last Barty dat der Coptain Breitmann has ge given - as yed. Pimepy I kess he gife anoder von, und if I kits an in- leading, or indrotuckshun, I kess I'll go. I am von of de vellers dat vas ad de virst Barty, vhere mine swister-in-law de Madilda Yane vas tantz mit Herr Breitmann. FRITZ SCHWACKENHAMMER, Olim Studiosus Theologiae, now Uhlan free-lancer, und Segretarius of Coptain Breitmann. VOT gollops at mitnight, Mit h'roolah and yell, Like der teufel's wild yager Boorst loose out of hell? Vot cleams in the sonrise Bright vlashin in gold? Das sind die Uhlancers Of Breitmann der bold. Dey frighten de coontry, Dey ploonder de town; And when dey are oop Die Franzosen co down: For pefore de wild Norsemen De Southron must flee; Ab ira Normannorum Libera nos Domine![55] How dey sweep de chateaux! How dey grab oop de hens! Und gobble de toorkeys Shoot oop in de pens Like de Angel of Deat' Dey are ragin abroad: You may track dem py fedders Knee-deep in de road. O der Breitmann ish on, Und der Breitmann is on, Und mit him de Uhlans Are ploonderin gone. De demon of fengeance His wings o'er em vave, Mit deir fingers like hooks, Und mit maws like de grafe. Dey coom to a castel, So shplendid, of bricks; Franzosen defend it, Das help em gar nichts. For de Uhlans hafe take it, Dey smash in de gate, Und inshpired by Gott's fury, Dey shdole all de plate. From shamber to shamber Dey fighted deir way, Till dead in de hall De Franzosen all lay; Und dere shtood a madchen, So lieblich und hold, Who laugh at de dead Troo her ringlocks of gold. Denn der Breitmann, all plooty, To'm madel so lind, Spoke courtly und tender: "Vy laughst dou, mein kind?" Denn de plue-eyed young peaudy, Mit lippe so red, Said, "Vy not shall I laughen? Vhen Frenchmen are dead. "I coom here from Deutschland, De shildren to teach; Dey mock me for Deutsch, Und dey sneer at mein sbeech; Und since de war komm, I vas nearly gone mad, You wouldn't peliefe How dey dreet me so pad." Mit a tear Breitmann bend To de peaudifool miss; "Crate Gott! can'st dou suffer Soosh horrors ash dis?" His arm round de maiden Der hero has bound, Und it shtaid dere goot vhile, Fore dey got it unwound.