EVERY DOG MUST HAVE HIS DAY

And ail those lands where war long slumbered,

Whose sons we deem our firm allies, Already on hîs list are numbered As conquered states become his prize.

Hell take an ell if you but give an inch,

For fain he'd pen the world within his fold.

Nay, he would scale the heavens at a pinch, To ape what he has read of Titans bold.

Corne, beat the drums, and cry Hurrah !

For Europe's Faustin clear the way 1 Of her white Soulouque France is proud.

Long live the Emperor ! shouts the crowd — For every dog must hâve his day !

France ! dost not mark the foui dérision When such a man can prate of peace ?

For thee, his cat*s-paw, death or prison While he bears off the golden fleece.

Thou'lt pay the piper when he gains the day

(A reckless spendthrift he of blood and men), His soldiers are but bravos in his pay, And for the great, his Walhalla's . . . Cayenne ! Come, beat the drums, and cry Hurrah !

For Europe's Faustin clear the way !

Of her white Soulouque Ffance is proud.

Long live the Emperor ! shouts the crowd — For every dog must hâve his day !

Yet hope we on ! the spark he smothers Will soon be kindled to a flame !

And nations ail, lîke banded brothers Will cease to play war's cruel game.