Behold! our Prince Imperial comes,
        And in his hands a lance,
      That erst he’ll cross with German spears
        For glory and for France.

      They’ve ta’en his bib and tucker off,
        And set him on a steed;
      That he may ride where soldiers ride,
        And bleed where soldiers bleed.

      They’ve cut his curls of jetty hair,
        And armed him cap a pie,
      Until he looks as fair a knight
        As France could wish to see.

      Ho! ladies of the chamber,
        Ho! nurses, gather near;
      Your charge upon a charger waits
        To shed the parting tear.

      Come! kiss him for his mother,
        Et pour sa Majeste,
      And twine his brow with garlands of
        The fadeless fleurs de lis.

      Voila! who but a few moons gone
        Of babies held the van,
      Now wears his spurs and draws his blade
        Like any other man!

      Then come, ye courtly dames of France,
        Oh! take him to your heart,
      And cheer as only woman can
        Our beardless BONAPARTE;

      For ere another sun shall set,
        Those lips cannot be kissed;
      And through the grove and in the court
        Their prattling will be missed.

      The light that from those soft blue eyes
        Now kindly answers thine,
      Will flash where mighty armies tread,
        Upon the banks of Rhine.

      Yea, hide from him, as best you can,
        All womanly alarms,
      Nor smile with those who mocking cry,
        “Behold!  A babe-in-arms!”

      A babe indeed!  Oh! sland’rous tongues,
        A Prince fresh from his smock,
      Shows manly proof if he can stand
        The battle shout and shock.

      And this is one on whom the gods
        Have put their stamp divine: 
      The latest, and perchance the last
        Of Corsica’s dread line.

      Then for the Prince Imperial
        Citoyens loudly cheer: 
      That his right arm may often bring
        Some German to his bier;

      That distant Rhineland, trembling,
        May hear his battle-cry,
      And neutral nations wondering ask,
        “Oh! how is this far high?”

Our private dispatches from the seat of war in Europe are very confusing.  The “Seat” appears to be considerably excited, but the “War” takes things easily, and seems to have “switched off” for an indefinite time.  It is observed by many that there never was a war precisely like this war, and if it hadn’t been for a Dutch female, the Duchess of Flanders, it is fair to suppose that PUNCHINELLO wouldn’t have been out of pocket so much for cablegrams.  The Duchess took it into her head (and her head appears to have had room for it,) that her blood relative, LEOPOLD, couldn’t get his blood up to accept the Spanish Crown.  Well, as it turned out, the Duchess was right.  Anyhow, she went for L., (a letter by the way, which few Englishman can pronounce in polite society,) and told him that there was