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Catch me confiding my person with strangers !
Think how the cowardly Bull-Runners ran! In the brigade of the Stay-at-home Rangers
Marches my corps, says the sweet little man.
Such was the stuff of the Malakoff-takers,
Such were the soldiers that scaled the Redan ; Truculent housemaids and bloodthirsty Quakers,
Brave not the wrath of the sweet little man !
Yield him the sidewalk, ye nursery maidens !
Sauve qui peut ! Bridget, and right about ! Ann ;Fierce as a shark in a school of menhadens,
See him advancing, the sweet little man !
When the red flails of the battle-field's threshers
Beat out the continent's wheat from its bran, While the wind scatters the chaffy seceshers,
What will become of our sweet little man?
When the brown soldiers come back from the borders,
How will he look while his features they scan ? How will he feel when he gets marching orders,
Signed by his lady love ? sweet little man!
Fear not for him, though the rebels expect him,
Life is too precious to shorten its span ;
Will she not fight for the sweet little man !
Now then, nine cheers for the Stay-at-home Ranger !
Blow the great fish-horn and beat the big pan! First in the field that is farthest from danger,
Take your white-feather plume, sweet little man !
VIVE LA FRANCE!
A SENTIMENT OFFERED AT THE DINNER TO H. I. H. THE PRINCE
NAPOLEON, AT THE REVERE HOUSE, SEPT. 25, 1861.
The land of sunshine and of song!
Her name your hearts divine ;
Whose breasts have poured its wine ;
Through varied change and chance :
I give you, VIVE LA FRANCE !
Above our hosts in triple folds
The self-same colors spread,
The blue, the white, the red ;
Reflects the morning's glance, –
Once more, then, VIVE LA FRANCE !
Sister in trial ! who shall count
Thy generous friendship’s claim, Whose blood ran mingling in the fount
That gave our land its name, Till Yorktown saw in blended line
Our conquering arms advance, And victory's double garlands twine
Our banners ? VIVE LA FRANCE !
O land of heroes ! in our need
One gift from Heaven we crave To stanch these wounds that vainly bleed, —
The wise to lead the brave ! Call back one Captain of thy past
From glory's marble trance, Whose name shall be a bugle-blast
To rouse us! Vive la FRANCE!
Pluck Condé's baton from the trench,
Wake up stout Charles Martel,
The sword of La Pucelle !
One lift of Bayard's lance, —
To lead us ! VIVE LA FRANCE !