Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs By Walter Thornbury. Illustrated by J. Whistler, F. Walker, John Tenniel, J. D. Watson, W. Small, F. Sandys, G. J. Pinwell, T. Morten, M. J. Lawless, and many others |
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| VII. | VII. THE VISIT TO THE MILITARY HOSPITAL,
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 | Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs |  |
VII. THE VISIT TO THE MILITARY HOSPITAL,
AFTER BAUTZEN, 1813.
“This is the fate of those who war,”
Napoleon said to me;
“High at the morn, but low at night.
Take down that map and see
How many leagues we won to-day.
Ten losses. I retire.
One victory. Berlin, Breslau,
Shall crumble at my fire.”
Napoleon said to me;
“High at the morn, but low at night.
Take down that map and see
How many leagues we won to-day.
Ten losses. I retire.
One victory. Berlin, Breslau,
Shall crumble at my fire.”
We stood outside the Thirteenth Ward,
He spoke as hushed and low
As if each word on some sick man
Would fall a smiting blow;
He turned the handle very soft
As to one sleeping, then
We stood beside the line of beds,
Among the wounded men.
He spoke as hushed and low
As if each word on some sick man
Would fall a smiting blow;
He turned the handle very soft
As to one sleeping, then
We stood beside the line of beds,
Among the wounded men.
He laid his hand with woman's care
Upon a soldier's brow;
The dying face turned slowly up.
“Do you not know me now?
Your Emperor?” The dying lips
Struggled for life, the heart
Beat once, the sick man faltered out,
“Comrades, 't is Bonaparte!”
Upon a soldier's brow;
The dying face turned slowly up.
“Do you not know me now?
Your Emperor?” The dying lips
Struggled for life, the heart
Beat once, the sick man faltered out,
“Comrades, 't is Bonaparte!”
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Then with a groan lay down again,
To pray for him and die.
The tears sprang up into my eyes
When, faint and weak, the cry
Ran through the ward of Austerlitz,
“The Emperor is come!”
And one poor boy with bandaged hand
Caught at his broken drum.
To pray for him and die.
The tears sprang up into my eyes
When, faint and weak, the cry
Ran through the ward of Austerlitz,
“The Emperor is come!”
And one poor boy with bandaged hand
Caught at his broken drum.
The dying on their pillows rose,
To swell the hoarse, low cheer
That rolled along—'t was pitiful,
Yet saddening to hear.
“My children,” cried the Emperor,
“My old Imperial Guards,
My ‘Salamanders,’ ‘Never-turns,’
My ‘Lions,’ my ‘Die-hards,’
To swell the hoarse, low cheer
That rolled along—'t was pitiful,
Yet saddening to hear.
“My children,” cried the Emperor,
“My old Imperial Guards,
My ‘Salamanders,’ ‘Never-turns,’
My ‘Lions,’ my ‘Die-hards,’
“I love you as I love my life;
We are the self-same stock.
France cares for you—'t was you who bled
To build her on the rock;
Your wives and orphans she will take
To her capacious heart.
Dare she forget them while he reigns,
Your little Bonaparte?
We are the self-same stock.
France cares for you—'t was you who bled
To build her on the rock;
Your wives and orphans she will take
To her capacious heart.
Dare she forget them while he reigns,
Your little Bonaparte?
“My children ------” But the rare-seem tears
Rose up and filled his throat,
As every bugler took his horn
And blew the battle note;
And then the wounded drummer-boy,
Two dead men's beds betwixt,
Crawled to the floor and slung his drum,
And plied the little sticks.
Rose up and filled his throat,
As every bugler took his horn
And blew the battle note;
And then the wounded drummer-boy,
Two dead men's beds betwixt,
Crawled to the floor and slung his drum,
And plied the little sticks.
A one-armed man took off a flag
He'd bound around his waist,
To sop and stanch the brave heart's blood
That from his gashes raced.
He waved it round his feeble head,
His large eyes all a-fire,
Then let it drop, and laid him down,
The brave man—to expire.
He'd bound around his waist,
To sop and stanch the brave heart's blood
That from his gashes raced.
He waved it round his feeble head,
His large eyes all a-fire,
Then let it drop, and laid him down,
The brave man—to expire.
| Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs | |