POETRY.

AUDENARDE.

HE was round and ruby-faced, he was belted, frogged, and

laced, And he stood just four feet nine ;

I can almost see him now, with his jolly tow-row-row,

And his drum-sticks twinkling fine ;

Through St. James's and the " Men," how he used to strut

and swell

To the changing of the guard,— But they said he stepped his proudest, and they said he

drummed his loudest, When they went to Audenarde.

They had fifteen miles to make, and the brimming Scheldt to take, Ere they brought the French to bay ; But he finished like a winner, though he went without his dinner, And he drummed it all the way ; As they waded through the sedges, as they scrambled through the hedges, And the fight grew hot and hard,

Not for all the bullets humming would he atop his jaunty

drumming,

When they went to Audenarde.

He was seen amid the flashes, he was heard above the crashes, He was first in each attack ; But they looked for him in vain in the darkness and the rain, When they came to bivouac; He was lying in the daisies, with his drum-head shot to blazes And one chubby cheek all scarred,— He had died for good Queen Anne like a valiant English man, When they went to Audenarde.

So they laid him by the Scheldt, in his epaulettes and belts With his drum-sticks in his hands ;

And we shall not see him now, with his jolly tow-row-row, When the old battalion lands; Through St. James's and the "hell," he will no more strut and swell To the changing of the guard, For with every step he trod, he was marching up to God, When they went to Audenarde.

FRANK TAYLOR.