But a sombre sight is a Battle-field To the sad survivor's sorrowing eye, Where those, who scorn'd to fly or yield, In one promiscuous carnage lie; When the cannon's roar Is heard no more, And the thick dun smoke has roll'd away, And the victor comes for a last survey Of the well-fought field of yesterday!
No triumphs flush that haughty brow,— No proud exulting look is there,— His eagle glance is humbled now, As, earth-ward bent, in anxious care It seeks the form whose stalwart pride But yester-morn was by his side!
And there it lies!—on yonder bank Of corses, which themselves had breath But yester-morn—now cold and dank, With other dews than those of death! Powerless as it had ne'er been born The hand that clasp'd his—yester-morn!
And there are widows wand'ring there, That roam the blood-besprinkled plain, And listen in their dumb despair For sounds they ne'er may hear again! One word, however faint and low,— Ay, e'en a groan,—were music now!
And this is Glory!—Fame!— But, pshaw! Miss Muse, you're growing sentimental; Besides, such things we never saw; In fact, they're merely Continental. And then your Ladyship forgets Some widows came for epaulettes.
So go back to your canter; for one, I declare, Is now fumbling about our capsized Mousquetaire, A beetle-brow'd hag, With a knife and a bag, And an old tatter'd bonnet which, thrown back, discloses The ginger complexion, and one of those noses Peculiar to females named Levy and Moses, Such as nervous folks still, when they come in their way, shun, Old vixen-faced tramps of the Hebrew persuasion.
You remember, I trust, François Xavier Auguste, Had uncommon fine limbs, and a very fine bust. Now there's something—I cannot tell what it may be— About good-looking gentlemen turn'd twenty-three, Above all when laid up with a wound in the knee, Which affects female hearts, in no common degree, With emotions in which many feelings combine, Very easy to fancy, though hard to define; Ugly or pretty, Stupid or witty, Young or old, they experience, in country or city, What's clearly not Love—yet it's warmer than Pity— And some such a feeling, no doubt, 'tis that stays The hand you may see that old Jezebel raise, Arm'd with the blade, So oft used in her trade, The horrible calling e'en now she is plying, Despoiling the dead, and despatching the dying! For these "nimble Conveyancers," after such battles, Regarding as treasure trove all goods and chattels, Think nought, in "perusing and settling" the titles, So safe as six inches of steel in the vitals.
Now don't make a joke of That feeling I spoke of; For, as sure as you're born, that same feeling,—whate'er It may be,—saves the life of the young Mousquetaire!— The knife, that was levell'd erewhile at his throat, Is employ'd now in ripping the lace from his coat, And from what, I suppose, I must call his culotte; And his pockets, no doubt, Being turned inside out, That his mouchoir and gloves may be put "up the spout," (For of coin, you may well conceive, all she can do Fails to ferret out even a single écu;) As a muscular Giant would handle an elf, The virago at last lifts the soldier himself, And, like a She-Samson, at length lays him down In a hospital form'd in the neighbouring town! I am not very sure, But I think 'twas Namur; And there she now leaves him, expecting a cure.
Canto II.
I abominate physic—I care not who knows That there's nothing on earth I detest like "a dose"— That yellowish-green-looking fluid, whose hue I consider extremely unpleasant to view, With its sickly appearance, that trenches so near On what Homer defines the complexion of Fear; Χλωρον δεοϛΧλωρον δεοϛ, I mean, A nasty pale green, Though for want of some word that may better avail, I presume, our translators have rendered it "pale;" For consider the cheeks Of those "well-booted Greeks," Their Egyptian descent was a question of weeks; Their complexion, of course, like a half-decayed leek's; And you'll see in an instant the thing that I mean in it, A Greek face in a funk had a good deal of green in it. I repeat, I abominate physic; but then, If folks will go campaigning about with such men As the Great Prince de Condé, and Marshal Turenne, They may fairly expect To be now and then check'd By a bullet, or sabre-cut. Then their best solace is Found, I admit, in green potions, and boluses; So, of course, I don't blame St. Foix, wounded and lame, If he swallowed a decent quant. suff. of the same; Though I'm told, in such cases, it's not the French plan To pour in their drastics as fast as they can, The practice of many an English Savan, But to let off a man With a little ptisanne. And gently to chafe the patella (knee-pan).