"It was the English," Kaspar cried, "Who put the French to rout; But what they killed each other for I could not well make out. But everybody said," quoth he, "That 'twas a famous victory! "My father lived at Blenheim then, They burned his dwelling to the ground, So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head. "With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide; And many a childing mother then And new-born baby died. But things like that, you know, must be 66 They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won; For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun. But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory. "Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won, 66 And our good Prince Eugene." Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!" Said little Wilhelmine. "Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he, "It was a famous victory! 112 THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. "And everybody praised the Duke Who this great fight did win.". 66 'Why, that I cannot tell," said he, THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. SOUTHEY. Our bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lowered, When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart, "Stay, stay with us,― rest, thou art weary and worn;" CAMPBELL. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 114 THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. |