This square of land, as large as India, formed the homeland，
His legs and his arms at the word of command Or the blow of a whistle! He's certainly damned,
Fit only for mince-meat, if a little gold lace And an upturned moustache can set him to face
Bullets, and bayonets, and death, and diseases, Because some one he calls his Emperor, pleases.
If each man were to lay down his weapon, and say, With a click of his heels, "I wish you Good-day,"
Now what, may I ask, could the Emperor do? A king and his minions are really so few.
Angry? Oh, of course, a most furious Emperor! But the men are so many they need not mind his temper, or
The dire results which could not be inflicted. With no one to execute sentence, convicted
Is just the weak wind from an old, broken bellows. What lackeys men are, who might be such fine fellows!
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