When he sat down to the royal fare
Bishop Bruno was the saddest man there;
But when the masquers entered the hall,
He was the merriest man of all.

Then from amid the masquers crowd
There went a voice hollow and loud, ..
You have past the day, Bishop Bruno, with glee!
But you must pass the night with me!

His cheek grows pale and his eye-balls glare,
And stiff round his tonsure bristles his hair;
With that there came one from the masquers band,
And took the Bishop by the hand.

The bony hand suspended his breath,
His marrow grew cold at the touch of death;
On saints in vain he attempted to call,
Bishop Bruno fell dead in the palace hall

The BATTLE of BLENHEIM.

It was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done!
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun,

And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round, Which he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found;

He came to ask what he had found,

That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy
Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head,

And with a natural sigh,

'Tis some poor fellow's scull, said he, Who fell in the great victory.

I find them in the garden, for
There's many here about;

And often when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out; For many thousand men, said he, Were slain in the great victory.

Now tell us what 'twas all about,
Young Peterkin he cries,
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes ;
Now tell us all about the war,

And what they kill'd each other for,

It was the English, Kaspar cried,
Who put the French to rout;
But what they kill'd each other for,
I could not well make out.

But every body said, quoth he,
That 'twas a famous victory.

My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by ;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground
And he was forc'd to fly;

So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.

With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide,

And many a childing mother then,

And new-born infant died.

But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory.

They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won,
For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun;

But things like that you know must be After a famous victory.

Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,

And our good Prince Eugene.

Why 'twas a very wicked thing!

Said little Wilhelmine.

Nay.. nay.. my little girl, quoth he,

It was a famous victory.

And every body praised the Duke
Who such a fight did win.
But what good came of it at last?
Quoth little Peterkin.

Why that I cannot tell, said he,
But 'twas a famous victory.