The litanies for the dead she sang In childlike pious fashion, And in the night they fearfully rang,-- The monks pray’d, full of compassion. CHARLES I. In the charcoal-burner’s hut in the wood Sits the king, an object of pity; The charcoal-burner’s child’s cradle he rocks, And sings this monotonous ditty: “Eiapopeia, why rustles the straw? “The sheep in the stalls bleat loudly; “Thou bearest the sign on thy forehead, and smil’st “In thy sleep so wildly and proudly. “Eiapopeia, thou bear’st on thy brow “The sign,--and dead is the kitten; “When grown to manhood, thou’lt flourish the axe, “And the oak in the wood will be smitten. “The charcoal-burner’s religion is dead, “And now no longer receive they,-- “Eiapopeia,--the faith in a God, “Still less in the king believe they. “The kitten is dead, and the mice rejoice “And we from their presence are driven,-- “Eiapopeia,--I, monarch on earth, “And God, the monarch in heaven. “My heart grows sicker day by day, “My brow grows sterner and sterner; “Eiapopeia,--my headsman art thou, “Thou child of the charcoal-burner! “My song of death is thy cradle-song-- “Eiapopeia--thou’lt fumble “My grey locks about, and cut them off,-- “Thine axe on my neck will tumble. “Eiapopeia,--why rustles the straw? “Thou hast gained a kingdom splendid; “Thou strikest off from my body my head,-- “The life of the kitten is ended. “Eiapopeia,--why rustles the straw? “The sheep in the stalls bleat loudly; “The kitten is dead, and the mice rejoice,-- “My dear little headsman, sleep proudly!” MARIE ANTOINETTE. The plate-glass windows gleam in the sun In the Tuileries Castle gaily; And yet the well-known spectres of old Still walk about in it daily. Queen Marie Antoinette still doth haunt The famous pavilion of Flora; With strict etiquette she holds her court At each return of Aurora. Full dress’d are the ladies,--they most of them stand, On tabourets others are sitting, With dresses of satin and gold brocade, Hung with lace and jewels befitting. Their waists are small, their hoop-petticoats swell, And from underneath them are peeping Their high-heel’d feet, that so pretty appear,-- If their heads were but still in their keeping! Not one of the number a head has on, The queen herself in that article Is wanting, and so Her Majesty boasts Of frizzling not one particle. Yes, she with toupée as high as a tower, In dignity so resplendent, Maria Theresa’s daughter fair, The German Cæsar’s descendant, She, curlless and headless, now must walk Amongst her maids of honour, Who, equally headless and void of curls, Are humbly waiting upon her.