From neighbouring woods he interlaced
His sorry skiff with wattled willows;
And thus equipped he would have passed
The foaming billows.
But Frenchmen caught him on the beach,
His little Argo sorely jeering.
Till tidings of him chanced to reach
Napoleon's hearing.
With folded arms Napoleon stood,
Serene alike in peace and danger,
And, in his wonted attitude,
Addressed the stranger.
"Rash man, that wouldst yon Channel pass
On twigs and staves so rudely fashioned,
Thy heart with some sweet British lass
Must be impassioned."
"I have no sweetheart," said the lad;
"But,—absent years from one another,—
Great was the longing that I had
To see my mother."
"And so thou shalt," Napoleon said,
"You've both my favour fairly won,
A noble mother must have bred
So brave a son."
He gave the tar a piece of gold,
And, with a flag of truce, commanded
He should be shipped to England old,
And safely landed.
Our sailor oft could scantly shift
To find a dinner, plain and hearty,
But never changed the coin and gift
Of Buonaparte.
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
(January 16, 1809.)