LOUIS NAPOLEON'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY WILLIAM AYTOUN. Guards! who at Smolensko fled-- No--I beg your pardon--bled! For my Uncle blood you've shed, Do the same for me. Now's the day and now's the hour, Heads to split and streets to scour; Strike for rank, promotion, power, Sawg, and eau de vie. Who's afraid a child to kill? Who respects a shopman's till? Who would pay a tailor's bill? Let him turn and flee. Who would burst a goldsmith's door, Shoot a dun, or sack a store? Let him arm, and go before-- That is, follow me! See the mob, to madness riled, Up the barricades have piled; In among them, man and child, Unrelentingly! Shoot the men! there's scarcely one In a dozen's got a gun: Stop them, if they try to run, With artillery! Shoot the boys! each one may grow Into--of the state--a foe (Meaning by the state, you know, My supremacy!) Shoot the girls and women old! Those may bear us traitors bold-- These may be inclined to scold Our severity. Sweep the streets of all who may Rashly venture in the way, Warning for a future day Satisfactory. Then, when still'd is ev'ry voice, We, the nation's darling choice, Calling on them to rejoice, Tell them, FRANCE IS FREE. THE BATTLE OF THE BOULEVARD WILLIAM AYTOUN. On Paris, when the sun was low, The gay "Comique" made goodly show, Habitues crowding every row To hear Limnandier's opera. But Paris showed another sight, When, mustering in the dead of night, Her masters stood, at morning light, The crack shasseurs of Africa By servants in my pay betrayed, Cavaignac, then, my prisoner made, Wrote that a circumstance delayed His marriage rite and revelry. Then shook small Thiers, with terror riven; Then stormed Bedeau, while gaol-ward driven; And, swearing (not alone by Heaven), Was seized bold Lamoriciere. But louder rose the voice of woe When soldiers sacked each cit's depot, And tearing down a helpless foe, Flashed Magnan's red artillery. More, more arrests! Changarnier brave Is dragged to prison like a knave: No time allowed the swell to shave, Or use the least perfumery. 'Tis morn, and now Hortense's son (Perchance her spouse's too) has won The imperial crown. The French are done, Chawed up most incontestably. Few, few shall write, and none shall meet; Suppressed shall be each journal-sheet; And every serf beneath my feet Shall hail the soldier's Emperor. PUFFS POETICAL. WILLIAM AYTOUM I. PARIS AND HELEN. As the youthful Paris presses Helen to his ivory breast, Sporting with her golden tresses, Close and ever closer pressed. He said: "So let me quaff the nectar, Which thy lips of ruby yield; Glory I can leave to Hector, Gathered in the tented field.