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 The combat deepens—On, ye brave,

Who rush to glory or the grave!

Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry—

Few, few shall part where many meet!

The snow shall be their winding sheet;

And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre!Campbell.

It was a summer's evening,

Old Kaspar's work was done,

And he before his cottage door

Was sitting in the sun,

And by him sported on the green

His little grandchild, Wilhelmine.

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 Kasper 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 fellows scull,' said he,

'Who fell in the great victory!

'I find them in the garden,

For there's many here about;

And often when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out: