On whole half-sheep, with cunning trick,
His sabre sometimes he'd employ--
No bar of lead, however thick,
Had terrors for the stalwart boy.
At Dover daily he'd prepare
To hew and slash, behind, before--
Which aggravated MONSIEUR PIERRE,
Who watched him from the Calais shore.
It caused good PIERRE to swear and dance,
The sight annoyed and vexed him so;
He was the bravest man in France--
He said so, and he ought to know.
"Regardez donc, ce cochon gros--
Ce polisson! Oh, sacre bleu!
Son sabre, son plomb, et ses gigots
Comme cela m'ennuye, enfin, mon Dieu!
"Il sait que les foulards de soie
Give no retaliating whack--
Les gigots morts n'ont pas de quoi--
Le plomb don't ever hit you back."
But every day the headstrong lad
Cut lead and mutton more and more;
And every day poor PIERRE, half mad,
Shrieked loud defiance from his shore.
HANCE had a mother, poor and old,
A simple, harmless village dame,
Who crowed and clapped as people told
Of WINTERBOTTOM'S rising fame.
She said, "I'll be upon the spot
To see my TOMMY'S sabre-play;"
And so she left her leafy cot,
And walked to Dover in a day.
PIERRE had a doating mother, who
Had heard of his defiant rage;
HIS Ma was nearly ninety-two,
And rather dressy for her age.
At HANCE'S doings every morn,
With sheer delight HIS mother cried;
And MONSIEUR PIERRE'S contemptuous scorn
Filled HIS mamma with proper pride.
Pages:
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52