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I find them in the garden, for
There's many here about,
The plough-share turns them out;
Now tell us what 'twas all about,
Young Peterkin he cries,
With wonder waiting eyes;
It was the English, Kaspar cried,
That put the French to rout;
I could not well make out.
My father liv'd at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by,
And he was forc'd to fly;
With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide,
And new-born infant died.
They say it was a shocking sight,
After the field was won,
Lay rotting in the sun;
Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,
And our good Prince Eugene.--
Said little Whilelmine.
And every body prais’d the Duke
Who such a fight did win,
Quoth little Peterkin.
On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser rolling rapidly.
But Linden shew'd another sight, When the drum beat at dead of night, Commanding fires of death, to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch, and trumpet, fast array'd, Each horseman drew his battle blade, And furious every charger neigh’d,
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills, by thunder riven; Then flew the steed, to battle driven; And rolling like the bolts of heaven,
Far flash'd their red artillery.
But redder yet their fires shall glow,
The combat deepens ! On ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave Munich, all thy banners wave!
And charge with all thy chivalry.
'Tis morn ;-but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun, Where fiery Frank, and furious Hun,
Shout in their sulphury canopy. Few, few shall part where many meet, The snuw shall be their winding sheet, And every sod beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE.
Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake,
And hear a helpless Orphan's tale! Ah! sure my looks must pity wake,
'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale. Yet I was once a mother's pride,
And my brave father's hope and joy; But in the Nile's proud fight he died,
And I am now an ORPHAN BOY.
Poor foolish child! how pleas'd was I,
When news of Nelson's victory came, Along the crowded streets to fly
And see the lighted windows flame! To force me home my mother sought ;
She could not bear to see my joy; For with my father's life 'twas bought,
And made me a poor ORPHAN BOY.
The people's shouts were long and loud;
My mother, shuddering, clos'd her ears; • Rejoice! Rejoice !” still cried the crowd ;
My mother answered with her tears,