"--There was ink on his thumb.
That morning, alone, good hours he spent
In writing despatches never sent.
RICHARD.
There is pleasure when bright eyes are glancing
And Beauty is willing; but more
When the war-horse is gallantly prancing
And snuffing the battle afar,--
When the foe, with his banner advancing,
Is sounding the clarion of war.
Where the battle is deadly and gory,
Where foeman 'gainst foeman is pressed,
Where the path is before me to glory,
Is pleasure for me, and the best.
Let me live in proud chivalry's story,
Or die with my lance in its rest!
The plaudits followed him loud and free
As he tossed the lute to Marcadee,
Who caught it featly, bowing low,
And said, "My liege, I may not know
To improvise; but I'll give a song,
The song of our camp,--we've known it long.
It suits not well this tinkle and thrum,
But needs to be heard with a rattling drum.
Ho, there! Tambour!--He knows it well,--
'The Brabancon!'--Now make it tell;
Let your elbows now with a spirit wag
In the outside roll and the double drag."
MARCADEE.
I'm but a soldier of fortune, you see:
Huzza!
Glory and love,--they are nothing to me:
Ha, ha!
Glory's soon faded, and love is soon cold:
Give me the solid, reliable gold:
Hurrah for the gold!
Country or king I have none, I am free:
Huzza!
Patriot's quarrel,--'tis harvest for me:
Ha, ha!
A soldier of fortune, my creed is soon told,--
I'd fight for the Devil, to pocket his gold:
Hurrah for the gold!
He turned to the king, as he finished the verse,
And threw on the table a heavy purse
With a pair of dice; another, I trow,
Still lurked _incog.
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