I find them in the garden, for
There's many here about,
And often when I go to plough,

The plough-share turns them out;
For many thousand men, said he,
Were slain in the great victory.

Now tell us what 'twas all about,
Young Peterkin he cries,
And little Whilelmine looks up
With wonder waiting eyes;

Now tell us all about the war,
And what they kill'd each other for.

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 every body said, quoth he,

That was a famous victory.

My father liv'd at Blenheim then,

Yon little stream hard by,

They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forc'd to fly;

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 infant died.

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

They say it was a shocking sight,
After the field was won,

For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun;

Eut 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 Whilelmine.
Nay-nay-my little girl, quoth he
It was a famous victory.

And every body prais'd 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.

HOHENLINDEN.

On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser rolling rapidly.

But Linden shew'd another sight, When the drum beat at dead of night, Commanding fires of death, to light The darkness of her scenery.

By torch, and trumpet, fast array'd, Each horseman drew his battle blade, And furious every charger neigh'd, To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills, by thunder riven; Then flew the steed, to battle driven; And rolling like the bolts of heaven, Far flash'd their red artillery.

But redder yet their fires shall glow,
On Linden's height of crimson'd snow,
And bloodier still the torrent flow
Of Iser rolling rapidly.

The combat deepens! On ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave Munich, all thy banners wave!

And charge with all thy chivalry.

'Tis morn;-but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun, Where fiery Frank, and furious Hun, Shout in their sulphury canopy.

Few, few shall part where many meet, The snow shall be their winding sheet, And every sod beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE.

Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake,
And hear a helpless Orphan's tale!
Ah! sure my looks must pity wake,—
'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale.
Yet I was once a mother's pride,

And my brave father's hope and joy;
But in the Nile's proud fight he died,
And I am now an ORPHAN BOY.

Poor foolish child! how pleas'd was I,
When news of Nelson's victory came,
Along the crowded streets to fly

And see the lighted windows flame!
To force me home my mother sought;
She could not bear to see my joy;
For with my father's life 'twas bought,
And made me a poor ORPHAN BOY.

The people's shouts were long and loud; My mother, shuddering, clos'd her ears; Rejoice! Rejoice!" still cried the crowd; My mother answered with her tears.