To Waterloo, with sad ado,

And many a sigh and groan,

Amongst the dead, came Patty Head,

To look for Peter Stone.

“O prithee tell, good sentinel,

If I shall find him here?

I’m come to weep upon his corse,

My Ninety-Second dear!

“Into our town a sergeant came,

With ribands all so fine,

A-flaunting in his cap — alas!

His bow enlisted mine!

“They taught him how to turn his toes,

And stand as stiff as starch;

I thought that it was love and May,

But it was love and March!

“A sorry March indeed to leave

The friends he might have kep’ —

No March of Intellect it was,

But quite a foolish step.

“O prithee tell, good sentinel,

If hereabout he lies?

I want a corpse with reddish hair,

And very sweet blue eyes.”

Her sorrow on the sentinel

Appear’d to deeply strike:—

“Walk in,” he said, “among the dead,

And pick out which you like.”

And soon she picked out Peter Stone,

Half turned into a corse;

A cannon was his bolster, and

His mattrass was a horse.

“O Peter Stone, O Peter Stone,

Lord, here has been a skrimmage!

What have they done to your poor breast

That used to hold my image?”

“O Patty Head, O Patty Head,

You’re come to my last kissing;

Before I’m set in the Gazette

As wounded, dead, and missing!

“Alas! a splinter of a shell

Right in my stomach sticks;

French mortars don’t agree so well

With stomachs as French bricks.

“This very night a merry dance

At Brussels was to be; —

Instead of opening a ball,

A ball has open’d me.

“Its billet every b............