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THE BATTLE OF IVRY *
(MACAULAY.) Henry the Fourth, on his accession to the French throne, was opposed by a large part of his subjects, under the Duke of Mayenne, with the assistance of Spain and Savoy, and. from the union of these several nations, their army was called the " army of the league." In March, 1590, he gained a decisive victory over that party, at Ivry, a small town in France. Before the battle, he said to his troops, “ My children, if you lose sight of your colors, rally to my white plume.--you will always find it in the path to honor and glory." His conduct was answerable to his promise. Nothing could resist his impetuous valor, and the leaguers underwent a total and bloody defeat. In the midst of the rout, Henry followed, crying, “ Save the French !" and his clemency added a number of the enemy to his own army.
Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories
are! And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of
Navarre. Now let there be the merry sound of music and the
dance, Through thy corn-fields green and sunny vines, 0
pleasant land of France ! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of
the waters, Again let rapture light the eye of all thy mourning
daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who would thy
walls annoy. Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance
of war; Hurrah ! hurrah! for Ivry, and King Henry of Navarre !
* Pronounced E-vree.
Oh! how our hearts were beating, when at the dawn
of day, We saw the army of the League drawn out in long
array ; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish
spears! There, rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of
our land ! And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in
his hand! And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's em
purpled flood, And good Coligni's* hoary hair, all dabbled with his
blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate
of war, To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.
The king is come to marshal us, in all his armor drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant
crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern
and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing
to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, “God save our
Lord, the King !" “And if my standard-bearer fall, and fall full well he
may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, Press where you see my white plume shine, amid the
ranks of war, And be your oriflamme,t to-day, the helmet of Navarre."
* Coligni, (pronounced Co-leen-yee,) a venerable old man, was one of the victims in the massacre of St. Bartholomew.
† Oriflamme, (pronounced or-ree-flam,) the French standard.
Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring
culverin! The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's
plain, With all the bireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now, by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of
France, Charge for the golden lilies,* now upon them with the
lance! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears
in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow
white crest; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like s
guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage, blazed the helmet of
Now, God be praised ! the day is ours! Mayenne hath
turned his rein, D'Aumalest hath cried for quarter; the Flemish court
is slain Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before s
Biscay gale; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, ari
cloven mail. And then we thought on vengeance, and all along ou:
van, “ Remember Saint Bartholomew,"'I was passed fros
man to man;
* Golden lilies were embroidered upon the French flag. † Pronounced Do-mal.
On the evening of St. Bartholomew's day, in the Team 1572, an indiscriminate massacre of the Protestants thring out France, took place, by order of Charles IX., then king: France.
But out spake gentle Henry, then, “No Frenchman is
my foe; Down, down with every foreigner ; but let your brethren
go." Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of
Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lucerne! Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never
sball return. Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor
spearmen's souls ! Ho! gallant nobles of the league, look that your arms
be bright! Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and
ward to-night! For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath
raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise and the valor of
the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories
are! And honor to our soverign lord, King Henry of Na
THE FRENCHMAN AND THE RATS.
A Frenchman once, who was a merry wight,
His supper done, some scraps of cheese were left, Which our poor Frenchman, thinking it no theft, Into his pocket put; then slowly crept To wished-for bed; but not a wink he sleptFor, on the floor, some sacks of flour were laid, To which the rats a nightly visit paid.
Our hero now undressed, popped out the light, Put on his cap and bade the world good-night; But first his breeches, which contained the fare, Under his pillow he had placed with care.
Sans ceremonie, soon the rats all ran, . And on the flour-sacks greedily began;
At which they gorged themselves; then smelling round,
In vain our little hero sought repose;
vou say?" 1 pay him well that can."
me, I pray: u dis charge forego, your house I drive