Pebbles and Shells (Hawkes collection)/Who Won Marengo?

by Clarence Hawkes

WHO WON MARENGO

Slow the burning sun was waning
 Where Napoleon's line had reeled,
Where the blood of France was staining
 All the verdure of the field;

Where her bravest sons were lying,
 Piled in heaps of mangled dead,
And the moaning of the dying
 Filled the air with sounds of dread;

Where the muskets' furious rattle
 Never ceased, and cannon frowned,
And the din and shock of battle
 Shook the earth for miles around;

There the Corsican had blundered,
 And his army was undone,
And the Teuton's guns had thundered,
 And the Austrian had won.

There with all her army scattered
 By the whirlwind of the fray,
And with half her legions shattered
 France had surely lost the day.

And her great commander madly
 Raving at this first defeat,
Said unto his drummer sadly,
 "Victor, beat the quick retreat."

"O my General, I have never
 Beat that shameful strain before,
At the touch my drum would wither,
 Let me sound the charge once more."

"Who would answer to the summons?"
 Then Napoleon hotly said,
"Where are all my boasted legions?
 They are scattered, they are dead."

"If I call them they will rally,
 They are patriots, they are men,
They will come from hill and valley,
 Let me call them once again."

And these words from one so daring,
 One so young, yet truly brave,
Put to shame the heart despairing,
 And resistless courage gave.

"Sound the charge!" the general thundered,
 "Let us rally, all who can,"
And the Austrian foemen wondered
 At the daring of the man.

But the French along the valley
 Raised the cry of Bonaparte,
And they rallied to the sally
 With new courage and new heart.

Victor led them to the breastworks,
 Up the banks they saw him climb,
And the rolling of his drumsticks
 To the double quick kept time.

Who could see him and not follow?
 O'er the works the Frenchmen swept,
And that last mad charge of Marlow
 Long in Austria was wept;

For it turned the tide of battle,
 And it filled the foe with dread,
And the rest, like frightened cattle,
 O'er the hills and valleys fled.

Then they sought the little drummer
 Who had led the charge so well,
In the lightnings and the glamour,
 E'en into the mouth of hell.

On the works they found him lying,
 There beside his riddled drum,
Where the mangled dead and dying
 Made the heart with pity numb.

He the bravest of those heroes,
 With his face turned towards the foe,
Dead to all life's joys and sorrows,
 Gone where such brave spirits go.

Filled with grief and tender pity,
 To the strains of Marseillaise,
Then they bore him to the city
 Where the air was rife with praise.

There they left him and the people
 Laid him in a soldier's grave,
Close beside St. Martin's steeple,
 Where his country's banners wave.

And they'll not forget the story
 Until Pity dries her tears,
And the head of Time grows hoary
 With the burden of the years.