O whom the Twelve Months, that have recently pass’d,
Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury,—
Still, fill to the Future! and join in our chime,
The regrets of remembrance to cozen,
And having obtained a New Trial of Time,
Shout in hopes of a kindlier dozen!
Hip! Hip! and Hurrah!
A WATERLOO BALLAD.
O Waterloo, with sad ado,
And many a sigh and groan,
Amongst the dead, came Patty Head,
To look for Peter Stone.
“O prithee tell, good sentinel,
If I shall find him here?
I’m come to weep upon his corse,
My Ninety-Second dear!
“Into our town a sergeant came
With ribands all so fine,
A-flaunting in his cap—alas,
His bow enlisted mine!
“They taught him how to turn his toes,
And stand as stiff as starch;
I thought that it was love and May,
But it was love and March!
“A sorry March indeed to leave
The friends he might have kep’,—
No March of Intellect it was,
But quite a foolish step.
“O prithee tell, good sentinel,
If hereabout he lies?
I want a corpse with reddish hair,
And very sweet blue eyes.”