Jena,
    Beside the fair river of Saal.
  This cross, 'twas the Emperor gave it;
    (God bless him!) it covers a blow;
  I had it at Austerlitz fight,
    As I beat on my drum in the snow.

  "'Twas thus that we conquer'd and fought;
    But wherefore continue the story?
  There's never a baby in France
    But has heard of our chief and our glory,—
  But has heard of our chief and our fame,
   His sorrows and triumphs can tell,
  How bravely Napoleon conquer'd,
    How bravely and sadly he fell.

  "It makes my old heart to beat higher,
    To think of the deeds that I saw;
  I follow'd bold Ney through the fire,
    And charged at the side of Murat."
  And so did old Peter continue
    His story of twenty brave years;
  His audience follow'd with comments—
    Rude comments of curses and tears.

  He told how the Prussians in vain
    Had died in defence of their land;
  His audience laugh'd at the story,
    And vow'd that their captain was grand!
  He had fought the red English, he said,
    In many a battle of Spain;
  They cursed the red English, and prayed
    To meet them and fight them again.

  He told them how Russia was lost,
    Had winter not driven them back;
  And his company cursed the quick frost,
    And doubly they cursed the Cossack.
  He told how the stranger arrived;
    They wept at the tale of disgrace:
  And they long'd but for one battle more,
    The stain of their shame to efface!

  "Our country their hordes overrun,
    We fled to the fields of Champagne,
  And fought them, though twenty to one,
    And beat them again and again!
  Our warrior was conquer'd at last;
   They bade him his crown to resign;
  To fate and his country he yielded
    The rights of himself and his line.

  "He came, and among us he stood,
    Around him we press'd in a throng:
  We could not regard him for weeping,
    Who had led us and loved us so long.
  'I have led you for twenty long years,'
    Napoleon said, ere he went
  'Wherever was honor I found you,
    And with you, my sons, am content!

  "'Though Europe against me was arm'd,
    Your chiefs and my people are true;
  I still might have struggled with fortune,
    And baffled all Europe with you.

  "'But France would have suffer'd the while,
    'Tis best that I suffer alone;
  I go to my place of exile,
    To write of the deeds we have done.

  "'Be true to the king that they give you,
    We may not embrace ere we part;
  But, General, reach me your hand,
    And press me, I pray, to your heart.'

  "He called for our battle standard;
    One kiss to the eagle he gave.
  'Dear eagle!' he said, 'may this kiss
    Long sound in the hearts of the brave!'
  'Twas thus that Napoleon left us;
    Our people were weeping and mute,
  As he pass'd through the lines of his guard,
    And our drums beat the notes of salute.

         .       .       .       .       .

  "I look'd when the drumming was o'er,
    I look'd, but our hero was gone;
  We were destined to see him once more,
    When we fought on the Mount of St. John.
  The Emperor rode through our files;
    'Twas June, and a fair Sunday morn;
  The lines of our warriors for miles
    Stretch'd wide through the Waterloo corn.

  "In thousands we stood on the plain,
    The red-coats were crowning the height;
  'Go scatter yon English,' he said;
    'We'll sup, lads, at Brussels tonight.'
  We answered his voice with a shout;
    Our eagles were bright in the sun;
  Our drums and our cannon spoke out,
    And the thundering battle begun.

  "One charge to another succeeds,
    Like waves that a hurricane bears;
  All day do our galloping steeds
    Dash fierce on the enemy's squares.
  At noon we began the fell onset:
    We charged up the Englishman's hill;
  And madly we charged it at sunset—
    His banners were floating there still.

  "—Go to! I will tell you no more;
    You know how the battle was lost.
  Ho! fetch me a beaker of wine,
    And, comrades, I'll give you a toast.
  I'll give you a curse on all traitors,
    Who plotted our Emperor's ruin;
  And a curse on those red-coated English,
    Whose bayonets help'd our undoing.

  "A curse on those British assassins,
    Who order'd the slaughter of Ney;
  A curse on Sir Hudson, who tortured
    The life of our hero away.
  A curse on all Russians—I hate them—
    On all Prussian and Austrian fry;
  And oh! but I pray we may meet them,
    And fight them again ere I die."

  'Twas thus old Peter did conclude
    His chronicle with curses fit.
  He spoke the tale in accents rude,
   In ruder verse I copied it.

  Perhaps the tale a moral bears,
    (All tales in time to this must come,)
  The story of two hundred years
    Writ on the parchment of a drum.

  What Peter told with drum and stick,
    Is endless theme for poet's pen:
  Is found in endless quartos thick,
    Enormous books by learned men.

  And ever since historian writ,
    And ever since a bard could sing,
  Doth each exalt with all his wit
    The noble art of murdering.

  We love to read the glorious page,
    How bold Achilles kill'd his foe:
  And Turnus, fell'd by Trojans' rage,
    Went howling to the shades below.

  How Godfrey led his red-cross knights,
    How mad Orlando slash'd and slew;
  There's not a single bard that writes
    But doth the glorious theme renew.

  And while, in fashion picturesque,
    The poet rhymes of blood and blows,
  The grave historian at his desk
    Describes the same in classic prose.

  Go read the works of Reverend Cox,
    You'll duly see recorded there
  The history of the self-same knocks
    Here roughly sung by Drummer Pierre.

  Of battles fierce and warriors big,
    He writes in phrases dull and slow,
  And waves his cauliflower wig,
    And shouts "Saint George for Marlborow!"

  Take Doctor Southey from the shelf,
    An LL. D.—a peaceful man;
  Good Lord, how doth he plume himself
    Because we beat the Corsican!

  From first to last his page is filled
    With stirring tales how blows were struck.
  He shows how we the Frenchmen kill'd,
    And praises God for our good luck.

  Some hints, 'tis true, of politics
    The doctors give and statesman's art:
  Pierre only bangs his drum and sticks,
    And understands the bloody part.

  He cares not what the cause may be,
    He is not nice for wrong and right;
  But show him where's the enemy,
    He only asks to drum and fight.

  They bid him fight,—perhaps he wins.
    And when he tells the story o'er,
  The honest savage brags and grins,
    And only longs to fight once more.

  But luck may change, and valor fail,
    Our drummer, Peter, meet reverse,
  And with a moral points his tale—
    The end of all such tales—a curse.

  Last year, my love, it was my hap
    Behind a grenadier to be,
  And, but he wore a hairy cap,
   No taller man, methinks, than me.

  Prince Albert and the Queen, God wot,
    (Be blessings on the glorious