THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.

I.

It was a summer evening,

Old Kaspar's work was done;
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun,
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

II.

She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
That he beside the rivulet,

In playing there, had found;
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.

III.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head,

And with a natural sigh,

"Tis some poor fellow's skull, said he, Who fell in the great victory.

IV.

I find them in the garden, for
There's many here about,
And often when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out;
For
many thousand men, said he,
Were slain in the great victory.

V.

Now tell us what 'twas all about,
Young Peterkin he cries,
And little Wilhelmine looks up

With wonder-waiting eyes;
Now tell us all about the war,

And what they kill'd each other for.

VI.

It was the English, Kaspar cried,
That put the French to rout;
But what they kill'd each other for,
I could not well make out.
But everybody said, quoth he,
That 'twas a famous victory.

VII.

My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by,

They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;

So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.

VIII.

With fire and sword the country round?
Was wasted far and wide,
And many a childing mother then,
And new-born infant, died.

But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

IX.

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 Marlbro' won.
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.

ΧΙ.

And everybody praised the Duke
Who such a fight did win.

But what good came of it at last ?-
Quoth little Peterkin.

Why that I cannot tell, said he,

But 'twas a famous victory.

ST. ROMUALD.

ONE day, it matters not to know
How many hundred years ago,
A Spaniard stopt at a posada door:

The landlord came to welcome him, and chat

Of this and that,

For he had seen the traveller there before.

Does holy Romuald dwell

Still in his cell ?

The traveller ask'd, or is the old man dead?
No, he has left his loving flock, and we

So good a Christian never more shall see,
The landlord answer'd, and he shook his head.

Ah, sir! we knew his worth.

If ever there did live a saint on earth!

Why, sir, he always used to wear a shirt For thirty days, all seasons, day and night: Good man, he knew it was not right

For dust and ashes to fall out with dirt, And then he only hung it out in the rain, And put it on again.

There used to be rare work

With him and the Devil there in yonder cell, For Satan used to maul him like a Turk. There they would sometimes fight

All through a winter's night,

From sunset until morn,

He with a cross, the Devil with his horn;

The Devil spitting fire with might and main,
Enough to make St. Michael half afraid;
He splashing holy water till he made
His red hide hiss again,

And the hot vapour fill'd the little cell.

This was so common, that his face became All black and yellow with the brimstone flame, And then he smelt-Oh Lord! how he did smell!

Then, sir! to see how he would mortify

The flesh! If any one had dainty fare,
Good man, he would come there,

And look at all the delicate things, and cry,
Oh, belly belly!

You would be gormandizing now, I know.
But it shall not be so;-

Home to your bread and water-home, I tell ye!

But, quoth the traveller, wherefore did he leave
A flock that knew his saintly worth so well?
Why, said the landlord, sir, it so befell
He heard unluckily of our intent

To do him a great honour, and you know
He was not covetous of fame below,

And so by stealth one night away he went.

What was this honour, then ? the traveller cried. Why, sir, the host replied,

We thought, perhaps, that he might one day leave us; And then should strangers have

The good man's grave;

A loss like that would naturally grieve us,
For he'll be made a saint of, to be sure.
Therefore we thought it prudent to secure
His relics while we might,

And so we meant to strangle him one night.