Poor Peter slowly totters by, Pale as a corpse, and stealthily; The very people in the street Stand still, when his sad form they meet. The maidens whisper’d as they pitied: “The grave he has this moment quitted.” Ah no, my dear young maidens fair, He’s just about to lie down there! As he is of his love bereft, The grave’s the best place that is left, Where he his aching heart may lay, And sleep until the Judgment Day. 5. THE PRISONER’S SONG. When my grandmother once had bewitch’d a poor girl, The mob would have burnt her quite readily; But though fiercely the judge his mustachios might twirl, She refused to confess her crime steadily. And when in the caldron they held her fast, She shouted and yell’d like a craven; But when the black vapour arose, she at last Flew up in the air as a raven. My black and feathery grandmother dear, O visit me soon in this tower! Quick, fly through the grating, and come to me here, And bring me some cakes to devour! My black and feathery grandmother dear, O prythee protect me from sorrow! For my aunt will be picking my eyes out, I fear, When I merrily soar hence to-morrow. 6. THE GRENADIERS Two grenadiers travell’d tow’rds France one day, On leaving their prison in Russia, And sadly they hung their heads in dismay When they reach’d the frontiers of Prussia. For there they first heard the story of woe, That France had utterly perish’d, The grand army had met with an overthrow, They had captured their Emperor cherish’d. Then both of the grenadiers wept full sore At hearing the terrible story; And one of them said: “Alas! once more My wounds are bleeding and gory.” The other one said: “The game’s at an end, With thee I would die right gladly, But I’ve wife and child, whom at home I should tend, For without me they’ll fare but badly. “What matters my child, what matters my wife? A heavier care has arisen; Let them beg, if they’re hungry, all their life,-- My Emperor sighs in a prison! “Dear brother, pray grant me this one last prayer: If my hours I now must number, O take my corpse to my country fair, That there it may peacefully slumber. “The legion of honour, with ribbon red, Upon my bosom place thou, And put in my hand my musket dread, And my sword around me brace thou. “And so in my grave will I silently lie, And watch like a guard o’er the forces, Until the roaring of cannon hear I, And the trampling of neighing horses. “My Emperor then will ride over my grave, While the swords glitter brightly and rattle; Then armed to the teeth will I rise from the grave, For my Emperor hasting to battle!” 7. THE MESSAGE.