THE MARCH TO MOSCOW.

The Emperor Nap he would set off

On a summer excursion to Moscow;

The fields were green, and the sky was blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!

What a pleasant excursion to Moscow!

Four hundred thousand men and more
Must go with him to Moscow:
There were Marshals by the dozen,
And Dukes by the score;

Princes a few, and Kings one or two;

While the fields are so green, and the sky so blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!

What a pleasant excursion to Moscow'

There was Junot and Augereau,

Heigh-ho for Moscow !

Dombrowsky and Poniatowsky,

Marshal Ney, lack-a-day!

General Rapp, and the Emperor Nap;
Nothing would do,

Southey.

While the fields were so green, and the sky so blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!

Nothing would do

For the whole of this crew,

But they must be marching to Moscow.

The Emperor Nap he talked so big

That he frightened Mr. Roscoe. John Bull, he cries, if you'll be wise, Ask the Emperor Nap if he will please To grant you peace, upon your knees,

Because he is going to Moscow !

He'll make all the Poles come out of their holes,
And beat the Russians, and eat the Prussians;
For the fields are green; and the sky is blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu

And he'll certainly march to Moscow!

And Counsellor Brougham was all in a fume
At the thought of the march to Moscow:
The Russians, he said, they were undone,

And the great Fee-Faw-Fum
Would presently come,

With a hop, step, and jump, unto London.
For, as for his conquering Russia,
However some persons might scoff it,

Do it he could, and do it he would,
And from doing it nothing would come but good,
And nothing could call him off it.

Mr. Jeffrey said so, who must certainly know,
For he was the Edinburgh Prophet.

They all of them knew Mr. Jeffrey's Review,
Which with Holy Writ ought to be reckoned:
It was, through thick and thin, to its party true
Its back was buff, and its sides were blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!

It served them for Law and for Gospel too.

But the Russians stoutly they turned to
Upon the road to Moscow.

Nap had to fight his way all through;
They could fight, though they could not parlez vous;
But the fields were green, and the sky was blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!

And so he got to Moscow.

He found the place too warm for him,
For they set fire to Moscow.

To get there had cost him much ado,

And then no better course he knew,

While the fields were green, and the sky was blue, Morbleu! Parbleu!

But to march back again from Moscow.

The Russians they stuck close to him
All on the road from Moscow.
There was Tormazow and Jemalow,
And all the others that end in ow;
Milarodovitch and Jaladovitch,

And Karatschkowitch,

And all the others that end in itch;
Schamscheff, Souchosaneff,

And Schepaleff,

And all the others that end in eff;

Wasiltschikoff, Kostomaroff,
And Tchoglokoff,

And all the others that end in off;
Rajeffsky, and Novereffsky,
And Rieffsky,

And all the others that end in effsky;
Oscharoffsky and Rostoffsky,

And all the others that end in offsky;
And Platoff he play'd them off,
And Shouvaloff he shovelled them off,
And Markoff he marked them off,
And Krosnoff he crossed them off,
And Tuchkoff he touched them off,
And Boraskoff he bored them off,
And Kutousoff he cut them off,
And Parenzoff he pared them off,
And Worronzoff he worried them off,
And Doctoroff he doctored them off,
And Rodionoff he flogged them off,

And, last of all, an Admiral came,
A terrible man with a terrible name,
A name which you all know by sight very well,
But which no one can speak, and no one can spell.
They stuck close to Nap with all their might;

They were on the left and on the right,
Behind and before, and by day and by night;
He would rather parlez vous than fight;
But he looked white, and he looked blue,'
Morbleu! Parbleu!

When parlez vous no more would do,
For they remembered Moscow.

And then came on the frost and snow,
All on the road from Moscow.

The wind and the weather he found, in that hour,
Cared nothing for him, nor for all his power;
For him who, while Europe crouched under his rod,
Put his trust in his Fortune, and not in his God.
Worse and worse every day the elements grew,
The fields were so white, and the sky so blue,
Sacrebleu! Ventrebleu!

What a horrible journey from Moscow !

What then thought the Emperor Nap
Upon the road from Moscow ?

Why, I ween he thought it small delight,
To fight all day, and to freeze all night;
And he was besides in a very great fright,
For a whole skin he liked to be in;

And so, not knowing what else to do,

When the fields were so white, and the sky so blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu !

He stole away, I tell you true,

-

Upon the road from Moscow.

'Tis myself, quoth he, I must mind most; So the Devil may take the hindmost.

Too cold upon the road was he;

Too hot had he been at Moscow;

But colder and hotter he may be,

For the grave is colder than Moscow;

And a place there is to be kept in view,

Where the fire is red, and the brimstone blue,
Morbleu Parbleu!

Which he must go to,

If the Pope say true,

If he does not in time look about him;
Where his namesake almost

He may have for his Host;

He has reckoned too long without him;
If that Host get him in Purgatory,

He won't leave him there alone with his glory;
But there he must stay for a very long day,

For from thence there is no stealing away,
As there was on the road from Moscow.

QUICK MOVEMENT.

THE CATARACT OF LODORE.

"How does the Water

Come down at Lodore?"

My little boy ask'd me
Thus, once on a time;
And moreover he task'd me
To tell him in rhyme.

Anon at the word,

Robert Southey.

There first came one daughter,

And then came another,

To second and third

The request of their brother,
And to hear how the Water
Comes down at Lodore,
With its rush and its roar,
As many a time

They had seen it before.
So I told them in rhyme,
For of rhymes I had store;
And 'twas in my vocation
For their recreation
That I should so sing;
Because I was Laureate

To them and the King.

From its sources which well
In the Tarn on the fell;
From its fountains

In the mountains,

Its rills and its gills; 1hrough moss and through brake,

It runs and it creeps

For awhile, till it sleeps

In its own little Lake. And thence at departing, Awakening and starting, It runs through the reeds, And away it proceeds, Through meadow and glade,

In sun and in shade,

And through the wood-shelter,
Among crags in its flurry,
Helter-skelter,
Hurry-scurry.

Here it comes sparkling,
And there it lies darkling;
Now smoking and frothing
Its tumult and wrath in,

Till in this rapid race
On which it is bent,