The March to Moscow

775

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 splendid 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,

Marshall Ney, lack-a-day!

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

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

Nothing would do

For the whole of his crew,

But they must be marching to Moscow.

The Emperor Nap he talk'd so big
That he frighten'd 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, 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 reckon'd:
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,

The March to Moscow

And Karatschkowitch,

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

And all the others that end in eff:
Wasiltschikoff, Kotsomaroff,
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 shovell'd them off,
And Markoff he mark'd them off,
And Krosnoff he cross'd them off,
And Touchkoff he touch'd them off,
And Borosk off 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 doctor'd them off,
And Rodinoff he flogg'd them off.
And, last of all, an Admiral came,

A terrible man with a terrible name,

777

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 look'd white, and he look'd blue.
Morbleu! Parbleu!

When parlez-vous no more would do.
For they remember'd 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 crouch'd 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 was 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 Moscovy;

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 reckon'd 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.

Robert Southey.

Half Hours with the Classics

HALF HOURS WITH THE CLASSICS

Ан, those hours when by-gone sages

Led our thoughts through Learning's ways,
When the wit of sunnier ages,

Called once more to Earth the days
When rang through Athens' vine-hung lanes
Thy wild, wild laugh, Aristophanes !

Pensive through the land of Lotus,
Sauntered we by Nilus' side;
Garrulous old Herodotus

Still our mentor, still our guide,
Prating of the mystic bliss

Of Isis and of Osiris.

All the learn'd ones trooped before us,
All the wise of Hellas' land,
Down from mythic Pythagoras,

To the hemlock drinker grand.
Dark the hour that closed the gates
Of gloomy Dis on thee, Socrates.

Ah, those hours of tend'rest study,
When Electra's poet told

Of Love's cheek once warm and ruddy,

Pale with grief, with death chill cold!
Sobbing low like summer tides
Flow thy verses, Euripides!

High our hearts beat when Cicero
Shook the Capitolian dome;
How we shuddered, watching Nero
'Mid the glare of blazing Rome!
How those records still affright us
On thy gloomy page, Tacitus!

Back to youth I seem to glide, as
I recall those by-gone scenes,

779