Part 4 — THE BATTLE OF THE BOULEVARD WILLIAM AYTOUN.
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On Paris, when the sun was low, The gay "Comique" made goodly show, Habitues crowding every row To hear Limnandier's opera.
But Paris showed another sight, When, mustering in the dead of night, Her masters stood, at morning light, The crack shasseurs of Africa
By servants in my pay betrayed, Cavaignac, then, my prisoner made, Wrote that a circumstance delayed His marriage rite and revelry.
Then shook small Thiers, with terror riven; Then stormed Bedeau, while gaol-ward driven; And, swearing (not alone by Heaven), Was seized bold Lamoriciere.
But louder rose the voice of woe When soldiers sacked each cit's depot, And tearing down a helpless foe, Flashed Magnan's red artillery.
More, more arrests! Changarnier brave Is dragged to prison like a knave: No time allowed the swell to shave, Or use the least perfumery.
'Tis morn, and now Hortense's son (Perchance her spouse's too) has won The imperial crown. The French are done, Chawed up most incontestably.
Few, few shall write, and none shall meet; Suppressed shall be each journal-sheet; And every serf beneath my feet Shall hail the soldier's Emperor.