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

What a pleasant excursion to Moscow !

Four hundred thousand men and more,
Heighho, for Moscow?

There were Marshals by dozens, and Dukes by the score,
Princes a few, and kings one or two,

While the fields were so green and the sky was so blue,

Morbleu! Parbleu !

What a pleasant excursion to Moscow !

There was Junot and Angerean,
Heighho, for Moscow!
Dombrowsky, and Poniatowsky,

General Rapp and Emperor Nap,

Nothing would do,

While the fields were so green, and the sky so blue,

Morbleu! Parbleu !

But they must be marching to Moscow.

But then the Russians they turned to;
All on the road to Moscow,

Nap had to fight his way all through,

They could fight, but they could not parley-vous,
But the fields were green and the sky was blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!

And so he got to Moscow.

They made the place too hot 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 !

Than to march back again from Moscow.

The Russians they stuck close to him,
All on the road from Moscow,
There was Tomazow and Gomalow,
And all the others that end in ow;

Rajefsky and Noverefsky,

And all the others that end in efsky;
Schamscheff, Souchosaneff, and Schepeleff,
And all the others that end in eff;
Wasiltschoff, Kostomarcoff, and Tehoglocoff,
And all the others that end in off;
Milaradovitch, and Juladovitch, and Karatchkowitch,
And all the others that end in itch;
Oscharoffsky, Rostoffsky, and Kazatichkoffsky,
And all the others that end in offsky;
And last of all an Admiral came,

A terrible man, with a terrible name,
A name, which, (you all must know very well)
Nobody can speak and nobody can spell;
And Platoff he played them off,

And Markoff he marked them off,
And Touchoff he touched them off,
And Kutusoff he cut them off,

And Woronzoff he worried them off,
And Dochtoroff he doctor'd them off,
And Rodinoff he flogg'd them off.

They stuck close to him with all their might,
They were on the left, and on the right,
Behind and before, and by day and by night;
Nap would rather parley-vous than fight;
But parley-vous would no more do,
Morbleu! Parbleu !

For they remembered Moscow !

And then came on the frost and snow,
All on the road from Moscow;
The Emperor Nap found as he went,
That he was not quite Omnipotent.

And worse and worse the weather grew,

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

What a terrible journey from Moscow !

The devil take the hindmost,

All on the road from Moscow !
Quoth Nap, who thought it small delight,
To fight all day, and to freeze all night:
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,
All by himself from Moscow !



A man,
in many a country town, we know,
Professes openly with death to wrestle;
Ent'ring the field against the grimly foe,
Armed with a mortar and a pestle.
Yet some affirm, no enemies they are;
But meet just like prize-fighters in a Fair,
Who first shake hands before they box,
Then give each other plaguy knocks,
With all the love and kindness of a brother;
So (many a suff'ring Patient saith.)
Tho' the apothecary fights with Death,
Still they're sworn friends to one another.
A member of this Æsculapian line,
Lived at New Castle upon Tyne:
No man could better gild a pill;
Or make a bill,—

Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister;

Or draw a tooth out of your head;
Or chatter scandal by your bed

In gentlest whisper.

His fame full six miles round the country ran;

In short in reputation he was solus:

All the old women called him "a fine man!"
His name was Bolus.

Benjamin Bolus, tho' in trade,
(Which oftentimes will genius fetter)
Read works of fancy, it is said;

And cultivated the Belles Lettres.

And why should this be thought so odd?
Can't men have taste who cure a phthysic?
Of Poetry tho' Patron-God,

Apollo patronizes physic.

Bolus loved verse ;-and took so much delight in't, That his prescriptions he resolved to write in't.

No opportunity he e'er let pass

Of writing the directions, on his labels,
In dapper couplets,-like Gay's Fables;
Or, rather, like the lines in Hudibras.

Apothecary's verse?—and where's the treason?
'Tis simply honest dealing :-not a crime ;-
When patients swallow physic without reason,
It is but fair to give a little rhyme.

He had a patient lying at Death's door,

Some three miles from the town-it might be four; To whom, one evening, Bolus sent an article.

And on the label of the stuff,

He wrote this verse;

Which, one would think, was clear enough

And terse :

"When taken,

To be well shaken."

Next morning, early, Bolus rose;
And to the patient's house he goes ;—
Upon his pad,

Who a vile trick of stumbling had
It was, indeed, a very sorry hack;
But that's of course:


For what's expected from a horse With an Apothecary on his back?

Bolus arrived; and gave a doubtful tap ;-
Between a single and a double rap.—

The servant lets him in, with dismal face,
Long as a courtier's out of place-
Portending some disaster;

John's countenance as rueful look'd, and grim,
As if th' Apothecary had physic'd him,—
And not his master.

"Well how's the patient?" Bolus said—
John shook his head,

"Indeed!-hum! ha!-that's very odd! "He took the draught?"-John gave a nod. "Well,-how?-what then?-speak out, you dunce!" "Why then" says John-" we shook him once." "Shook him!-how ?"-Bolus stammer'd out:"We jolted him about."

"Zounds! shake a patient, man !—a shake wont do." "No sir-and so we gave him two."

"Two shakes!-a curse!

'Twould make the patient worse.


"It did so, sir!—and so a third we tried."

"Well, and what then?"" Then sir, my master died."

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A supercilious nabob of the east

Haught, being great, and purse-proud, being rich,

A governor, or general, at the least,

I have forgotten which,

Had in his family an humble youth,

Who went from England in his patron's suite,

An unassuming boy, and in truth

A lad of decent parts, and good repute.

This youth had sense and spirit;

But yet with all his sense,

Excessive diffidence

Obscured his merit.

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