 | The lion's cub |  |
A FANTASY.
Or worsted, or bettered,In the combat of wit,
By lettered, or unlettered,
I cheerfully submit;
For, bumpkin or cit,
You must not think me cruel,
If winning this duel,
I parry with my poniard your misdirected wit.
For the weapon that I wear
Is le sabre de mon père,
Who fell at Quatre-Bras,
And was mangled by the paw
Of the gory British lion,
In sight of Waterloo, a happy field to die on,
83
Of that awful day in June,
To the foolish old tune—
I can hear it still afar—
Of Malbrook s'en va-t-en guerre,
With its sonorous refrain,
That was never heard in vain,
Of “Mironton, Mironton, Mirontaine.”
| The lion's cub | |