La Guerre would declare, “With the blood of a foe
No tipple is worthy to clink.”
Poor fellow! he hadn’t, though sixty or so,
Yet tasted his favourite drink!
They agreed at their mess—they agreed in the glass—
They agreed in the choice of their “set,”
And they also agreed in adoring, alas!
The Vivandière, pretty Fillette.
Agreement, you see, may be carried too far,
And after agreeing all round
For years—in this soldierly “maid of the bar,”
A bone of contention they found!
It may seem improper to call such a pet—
By a metaphor, even—a bone;
But though they agreed in adoring her, yet
Each wanted to make her his own.
“On the day that you marry her,” muttered Prepere
(With a pistol he quietly played),
“I’ll scatter the brains in your noddle, I swear,
All over the stony parade!”
“I cannot do that to you,” answered La Guerre,
“Whatever events may befall;
But this I can do—if you wed her, mon cher!
I’ll eat you, moustachios and all!”
The rivals, although they would never engage,
Yet quarrelled whenever they met;
They met in a fury and left in a rage,
But neither took pretty Fillette.
“I am not afraid,” thought Makredi Prepere:
“For country I’m ready to fall;
But nobody wants, for a mere Vivandière,
To be eaten, moustachios and all!
“Besides, though La Guerre has his faults, I’ll allow
He’s one of the bravest of men:
My goodness! if I disagree with him now,
I might disagree with him then.”
“No coward am I,” said La Guerre, “as you guess—
I sneer at an enemy’s blade;
But I don’t want Prepere to get into a mess
For splashing the stony parade!”