Your eyes can only help the cheat,

Your smile more thoroughly deceive me.

I think it well that men, dear wife,

Are sometimes with such madness smitten,

Else little joy would be in life,

And little poetry be written.

PRO PATRIA ET GLORIA.

The lights blaze high in our brilliant rooms;

Fair are the maidens who throng our halls;

Soft, through the warm and perfumed air,

The languid music swells and falls.

The "Seventh" dances and flirts to-night—

All we are fit for, so they say,

We fops and weaklings, who masquerade

As soldiers, sometimes, in black and gray.

We can manage to make a street parade,

But, in a fight, we'd be sure to run.

Defend you! pshaw, the thought's absurd!

How about April, sixty-one?

What was it made your dull blood thrill?

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