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 skull,” said he,
  “Who fell in the great victory.

  “I find them in the garden,
    For there’s many hereabout;
  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 fought each other for.”

  “It was the English,” Kaspar cried,
    “Who put the French to rout;
  But what they fought each other for
    I could not well make out;
  But everybody 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 forced 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 there,
    And new-born baby 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 Marlborough 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 everybody praised the duke
    Who this great 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.”

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

* * * * *

AT GIBRALTAR.

  I.

  England, I stand on thy imperial ground
    Not all a stranger; as thy bugles blow,
    I feel within my blood old battles flow,—­
  The blood whose ancient founts are in thee found
  Still surging dark against the Christian bound
    While Islam presses; well its peoples know
    Thy heights that watch them wandering below: 
  I think how Lucknow heard their gathering sound.

  I turn and meet the cruel, turbaned face. 
    England! ’tis sweet to be so much thy son! 
  I feel the conqueror in my blood and race;
    Last night Trafalgar awed me, and to-day
  Gibraltar wakened; hark, thy evening gun
    Startles the desert over Africa.