Classic Poem

From the Italian of Nicodemus Lermil.

When Bonaparte, overcome,
Fled from the sound of Prussian drum,
Aghast, discomfited, and dumb,
Wrapt in his roquelaure, —

To wealth and power he bade adieu —
Affairs were looking Prussic blue:
In emblematic tatters flew
The glorious tricolor.

What once had seemed fixt as a rock,
Had now received a fatal shock;
And he himself had got a knock
From a Cossack on the head!

Gone was his hat, lost was his hope;
The hand, that once had smote the Pope,
Had even dropped its telescope
In the hurry as he fled.

Old Blucher's corps a capture made
Of his mantle, sabre, and cockade;
Which in " Rag Fair " would, " from the trade, "
No doubt a trifle fetch.

But though the Prussians ('tis confest)
Of all his wardrobe got the best,
(Besides the military chest),
Himself they could not catch.

He's gone somewhere beyond the seas,
To expiate his rogueries:
King Louis in the Tuileries
Has recommenced to reign.

Gladness pervades the allied camps,
And nought the public triumph damps;
But every house is lit with lamps,
E'en in each broken pane.

Paris is one vast scene of joy;
And all her citizens employ
Their throats in shouting Vive le roi!
Amid the roar of cannon.

Oh! when they saw the " blanc drapeau "
Once more displayed, they shouted so
You could have heard them from the Po,
Or from the banks of Shannon.

Gadzooks! it was, upon my fay,
An European holyday;
And the land laughed, and all were gay,
Except the sans culottes .

You'd see the people playing cards,
And gay grisettes and dragoon guards
Dancing along the boulevards —
Of brandy there were lots!

Now, Bonaparte and Murat,
My worthy heroes! after that,
I'd like to know what you'll be at —
I think you must feel nervous.

Perhaps you are not so besotted
As to be cutting the " carotid " —
But there's the horsepond! — there, odd rot it!
From such an end preserve us!