By a dream held in charm, He uplifts his right arm, For he dreams of reviewing his host. To the stable he glides, For the charger he rides; And he mounts him, still under the spell; Then, with echoing tramp, They proceed through the camp, All intent on a task he loves well. Such a sight soon alarms, And the guards present arms, As he glides to the posts that they keep; Then he gives the brief word, And the bugle is heard, Like a hound giving tongue in its sleep. Next the drums they arouse, But with dull row-de-dows, And they give but a somnolent sound; Whilst the foot and horse, both, Very slowly and loth, Begin drowsily mustering round. To the right and left hand, They fall in, by command, In a line that might better be dress’d; Whilst the steeds blink and nod, And the lancers think odd To be rous’d like the spears from their rest. With their mouths of wide shape, Mortars seem all agape, Heavy guns look more heavy with sleep; And, whatever their bore, Seem to think it one more In the night such a field day to keep. Then the arms, christened small Fire no volley at all, But go off, like the rest, in a doze; And the eagles, poor things, Tuck their heads ‘neath their wings, And the band ends in tunes through the nose. Till each pupil of Mars Takes a wink like the stars-- Open order no eye can obey! If the plumes in their heads Were the feathers of beds, Never top could be sounder than they! So, just wishing good night, Bows Napoleon, polite; But instead of a loyal endeavour To reply with a cheer; Not a sound met his ear, Though each face seem’d to say, “_Nap_ for ever!” ODE TO DR. KITCHENER. Ye Muses nine inspire And stir up my poetic fire; Teach my burning soul to speak With a bubble and a squeak! Of Dr. Kitchener I fain would sing, Till pots, and pans, and mighty kettles ring. O culinary sage! (I do not mean the herb in use, That always goes along with goose) How have I feasted on thy page: “When like a lobster boil’d the morn From black to red began to turn,” Till midnight, when I went to bed, And clapt my tewah-diddle on my head. Who is there cannot tell, Thou leadest a life of living well? “What baron, or squire, or knight of the shire Lives half so well as a holy Fry--er?” In doing well thou must be reckon’d The first,--and Mrs. Fry the second; And twice a Job,--for, in thy fev’rish toils, Thou wast all over roasts--as well as boils.