PETIT JEAN.

AT THE BATTLE OF THE PYRAMIDS, JULY 21, 1798.

BY MARY A. BARR.

Up rose the sun o'er Egypt's tents, O'er Egypt's pyramids and sands, O'er fierce and fiery Mamelukes, And o'er Napoleon's veteran bands; The palms stood still in the hot air, The sad and silent Sphinx looked on, While over all the Afric sun In burning, blinding splendor shone. The Mamelukes fretted on their steeds, Their cimeters all bright and bare; The French stood grimly watching them, Napoleon in the centre square. He pointed to the Pyramids: "Comrades, from those grand heights, I say, The brave of forty centuries Will watch you draw your swords to-day!" They answered him with ringing shouts, And ere the echoes died away The van, like a tornado, charged, Led by the brave and bold Desaix. Then while the trusty "Forty-third" Stood waiting for the word to charge, They saw their little drummer-boy Come from the column of Dufarge. With tottering steps and bleeding breast, But bravely beating still his drum, He said, with sad and tearful face, "Oh, Forty-third, to you I've come; I've come to you, my Regiment, For nothing but a child am I; I've come to you, my comrades brave, That you may teach me how to die! "I'll never shame you, Forty-third; I want to be as brave and true; I want to die as brave men die; So tell a poor child what to do." Then Regnier gnawed his long gray beard, And Joubert turned his head away: The lad had been the pet of all, And now they knew not what to say, Till Regnier kissed the boy, and spoke: "Our Petit Jean, I see 'tis plain Your place is with the Forty-third; So beat us now the 'charge' again, Then follow, and we'll show you how Death comes unto the soldier brave. Comrades, salute the nine-year-old Who'll bravely fill a soldier's grave!" The men's hearts glowed like living coals, And Regnier cried, "Why do we stay?" And to the roll of the little drum They rode upon their vengeful way; But each one as he passed the child His sword with earnest purpose drew, And cried in brave or tender tones, "Mon Petit Jean, adieu! adieu!" "I come, my Regiment, I come!" But never Petit Jean again His drum beat for the Forty-third: They found him lying with the slain. They put the medal on his breast, Together clasped his childish hands, And dug, with many a bitter tear, A grave for him in Egypt's sands. 'Tis near a century ago, But still his memory is green; The Regiment has not a name So dear as that of Petit Jean; And many a weary soldier has To brave and noble deeds been stirred By the tale of the little nine-year-old Who died among the Forty-third.