If he departed as he came,

With no new light on love or liquor,— Good sooth, the traveller was to blame,

And not the vicarage, or the vicar.

His talk was like a stream which runs
With rapid change from rocks to roses:
It slipped from politics to puns:

It passed from Mahomet to Moses:
Beginning with the laws which keep
The planets in their radiant courses,
And ending with some precept deep
For dressing eels or shoeing horses.

His sermon never said or showed

That earth is foul, that heaven is gracious,

Without refreshment on the road

From Jerome, or from Athanasius;

And sure a righteous zeal inspired

The hand and head that penned and planned them,

For all who understood, admired,

And some who did not understand them.

He did not think all mischief fair,

Although he had a knack of joking; He did not make himself a bear, Although he had a taste for smoking: And when religious sects ran mad,

He held, in spite of all his learning, That if a man's belief is bad,

It will not be improved by burning.

And he was kind, and loved to sit

In the low hut or garnished cottage, And praise the farmer's homely wit,

And share the widow's homelier pottage: At his approach complaint grew mild,

And when his hand unbarred the shutter,

The clammy lips of fever smiled

The welcome which they could not utter.

He always had a tale for me

Of Julius Cæsar or of Venus:

From him I learned the rule of three,
Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and Quæ Genus;

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,

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 played 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 Boroskoff 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 Muscovy;
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,