XXXVIII.

“Where be thy daughters--yield them to our arms, “This instant yield them--buxom maids be they; “Buxom and fierce--the soldier’s spiciest charms “In woman. _L’Espingarda_ fires, I say, “With aim that like a tirailleur’s can slay. “’Twas with my carbine she my comrade smote. “Now will I rifle her--she’ll now obey “My wishes, while I grasp her soft, white throat. “_Dame!_ a French bastard soon her tapering waist shall bloat!”