François Xavier Auguste was a gay Mousquetaire, The Pride of the Camp, the delight of the Fair: He'd a mien so distingué, and so debonnaire, And shrugg'd with a grace so recherché and rare, And he twirl'd his moustache with so charming an air, —His moustaches I should say, because he'd a pair,— And, in short, shew'd so much of the true sçavoir faire, All the ladies in Paris were wont to declare, That could any one draw Them from Dian's strict law, Into what Mrs. Ramsbottom calls a "Fox Paw," It would be François Xavier Auguste de St. Foix.
Now, I'm sorry to say, At that time of day, The Court of Versailles was a little too gay; The Courtiers were all much addicted to Play, To Bourdeaux, Chambertin, Frontignac, St. Peray, Lafitte, Chateau Margaux, And Sillery (a cargo On which John Bull sensibly (?) lays an embargo), While Louis Quatorze Kept about him, in scores, What the Noblesse, in courtesy, term'd his "Jane Shores," —They were call'd by a much coarser name out of doors.— This, we all must admit, in A King's not befitting! For such courses, when followed by persons of quality, Are apt to detract on the score of morality.
François Xavier Auguste acted much like the rest of them, Dress'd, drank, and fought, and chassée'd with the best of them; Took his œil de perdrix Till he scarcely could see, He would then sally out in the streets for a "spree;" His rapier he'd draw, Pink a Bourgeois, (A word which the English translate "Johnny Raw,") For your thorough French Courtier, whenever the fit he's in, Thinks it prime fun to astonish a citizen; And, perhaps it's no wonder that this kind of scrapes, In a nation which Voltaire, in one of his japes, Defines "an amalgam of Tigers and Apes," Should be merely considered as "Little Escapes." But I'm sorry to add, Things are almost as bad A great deal nearer home, and that similar pranks Amongst young men who move in the very first ranks, Are by no means confined to the land of the Franks.
Be this as it will, In the general, still, Though blame him we must, It is really but just To our lively young friend, François Xavier Auguste, To say, that howe'er Well known his faults were, At his Bacchanal parties he always drank fair, And, when gambling his worst, always play'd on the square, So that, being much more of pigeon than rook, he Lost large sums at faro (a game like "Blind Hookey"), And continued to lose, And to give I O U's, Till he lost e'en the credit he had with the Jews; And, a parallel if I may venture to draw Between François Xavier Auguste de St. Foix, And his namesake, a still more distinguished François, Who wrote to his "sœur"[19] From Pavia, "Mon Cœur, I have lost all I had in the world fors l'honneur." So St. Foix might have wrote No dissimilar note, "Vive la bagatelle!—toujours gai—idem semper— I've lost all I had in the world but—my temper!" From the very beginning, Indeed, of his sinning, His air was so cheerful, his manners so winning, That once he prevailed—or his friends coin the tale for him— On the bailiff who "nabbed" him, himself to "go bail" for him.
Well—we know in these cases Your "Crabs" and "Deuce Aces" Are wont to promote frequent changes of places; Town doctors, indeed, are most apt to declare That there's nothing so good as the pure "country air," Whenever exhaustion of person, or purse, in An invalid cramps him, and sets him a-cursing: A habit, I'm very much grieved at divulging, François Xavier Auguste was too prone to indulge in. But what could be done? It's clear as the sun, That, though nothing's more easy than say "Cut and run!" Yet a Guardsman can't live without some sort of fun— E'en I or you, If we'd nothing to do, Should soon find ourselves looking remarkably blue. And, since no one denies What's so plain to all eyes, It won't, I am sure, create any surprise That reflections like these half reduced to despair François Xavier Auguste, the gay Black Mousquetaire.
Patience par force! He considered, of course, But in vain—he could hit on no sort of resource— Love?—Liquor?—Law?—Loo? They would each of them do, There's excitement enough in all four, but in none he Could hope to get on sans l'argent—i.e. money. Love?—no;—ladies like little cadeaux from a suitor. Liquor?—no,—that won't do, when reduced to "the Pewter."— Then Law?—'tis the same; It's a very fine game, But the fees and delays of "the Courts" are a shame, As Lord Brougham says himself—who's a very great name, Though the Times made it clear he was perfectly lost in his Classic attempt at translating Demosthenes, And don't know his "particles."—Who wrote the articles, Shewing his Greek up so, is not known very well; Many thought Barnes, others Mitchell,—some Merivale; But it's scarce worth debate, Because from the date Of my tale one conclusion we safely may draw, Viz.: 'twas not François Xavier Auguste de St. Foix! Loo?—no;—that he had tried; 'Twas, in fact, his weak side, But required more than any a purse well supplied. "Love?—Liquor?—Law?—Loo? No! 'tis all the same story. Stay! I have it—Ma foi! (that's 'Odd's Bob's!') there is Glory! Away with dull care! Vive le Roi! Vive la Guerre! Peste! I'd almost forgot I'm a Black Mousquetaire! When a man is like me, Sans six sous, sans souci, A bankrupt in purse, And in character worse, With a shocking bad hat, and his credit at Zero, What on earth can he hope to become,—but a Hero? What a famous thought this is! I'll go as Ulysses Of old did—like him I'll see manners, and know countries;[20] Cut Paris,—and gaming,—and throats in the Low Countries."
So said, and so done—he arranged his affairs, And was off like a shot to his Black Mousquetaires.
Now it happen'd just then That Field-Marshal Turenne Was a good deal in want of "some active young men," To fill up the gaps Which, through sundry mishaps, Had been made in his ranks by a certain "Great Condé," A General unrivall'd—at least in his own day— Whose valour was such, That he did not care much If he fought with the French,—or the Spaniards,—or Dutch,— A fact which has stamped him a rather "Cool hand," Being nearly related to Louis le Grand. It had been all the same had that King been his brother; He fought sometimes with one, and sometimes with another; For war, so exciting, He took such delight in, He did not care whom he fought, so he was fighting. And, as I've just said, had amused himself then By tickling the tail of Field-Marshal Turenne; Since which, the Field-Marshal's most pressing concern Was to tickle some other Chiefs tail in his turn.
What a fine thing a battle is!—not one of those Which one saw at the late Mr. Andrew Ducrow's, Where a dozen of scene-shifters, drawn up in rows, Would a dozen more scene-shifters boldly oppose, Taking great care their blows Did not injure their foes, And alike, save in colour and cut of their clothes, Which were varied, to give more effect to "Tableaux," While Stickney the Great Flung the gauntlet to Fate, And made us all tremble, so gallantly did he come On to encounter bold General Widdicombe— But a real, good fight, like Pultowa, or Lützen, (Which Gustavus the great ended all his disputes in,) Or that which Suwarrow engaged without boots in, Or Dettingen, Fontenoy, Blenheim, or Minden, Or the one Mr. Campbell describes, Hohenlinden, Where "the sun was low," The ground all over snow, And dark as mid-winter the swift Iser's flow,— Till its colour was alter'd by General Moreau; While the big drum was heard in the dead of the night, Which rattled the Bard out of bed in a fright, And he ran up the steeple to look at the fight. 'Twas in just such another one, (Names only bother one— Dutch ones, indeed, are sufficient to smother one—) In the Netherlands somewhere—I cannot say where— Suffice it that there La Fortune de guerre Gave a cast of her calling to our Mousquetaire. One fine morning, in short, François Xavier Auguste, After making some scores of his foes "bite the dust," Got a mouthful himself of the very same crust; And though, as the Bard says, "No law is more just Than for Necis artifices"—so they call'd fiery Soldados at Rome,—"arte suâ perire," Yet Fate did not draw This poetical law To its fullest extent in the case of St. Foix. His Good Genius most probably found out some flaw, And diverted the shot From some deadlier spot To a bone which, I think, to the best of my memory, 's Call'd by Professional men the "os femoris;" And the ball being one of those named from its shape, And some fancied resemblance it bears to the grape, St. Foix went down, With a groan and a frown, And a hole in his small-clothes the size of a crown.— —Stagger'd a bit By this "palpable hit," He turn'd on his face, and went off in a fit!
Yes!—a Battle's a very fine thing while you're fighting, These same Ups-and-Downs are so very exciting.