 | The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard |  |
IN ALSATIA.
Here is a friend shall fight for thee,
Be thou good fellow, and under ban.
Where have I met thee? Let me see,
But, tush! what matter? A man's a man.
This is a hand has handled sword,
So fill up thy can, and clink with me;
Out with thy troubles, thou hast my word,
Here is a friend shall fight for thee.
Be thou good fellow, and under ban.
Where have I met thee? Let me see,
But, tush! what matter? A man's a man.
This is a hand has handled sword,
So fill up thy can, and clink with me;
Out with thy troubles, thou hast my word,
Here is a friend shall fight for thee.
Thirty years man-at-arms was I,
Trailed pike in Flanders, rough work there,
Stormed forts, sacked cities—pass that by,
Also the women dragged by the hair.
There must be soldiers, I suppose,
So long as kings and peoples be.
Marry, sir, 'tis a world of blows,
But here is a friend shall fight for thee.
Trailed pike in Flanders, rough work there,
Stormed forts, sacked cities—pass that by,
Also the women dragged by the hair.
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So long as kings and peoples be.
Marry, sir, 'tis a world of blows,
But here is a friend shall fight for thee.
“Free lance, freebooter,” runs the song,
Writ by some skulking clerk, I wot.
I never do peaceful burghers wrong,
Nor kiss a woman, an she would not.
Never take purse, but from the dead,
That are long past spending, unlike me,
Who seek not your gold, but good instead,
For here is the friend shall fight for thee.
Writ by some skulking clerk, I wot.
I never do peaceful burghers wrong,
Nor kiss a woman, an she would not.
Never take purse, but from the dead,
That are long past spending, unlike me,
Who seek not your gold, but good instead,
For here is the friend shall fight for thee.
What knaves be these? No friends of mine.
I'll parley with them. What want ye here?
The splash on my ruffle? Pshaw! 'tis wine,
Will draw on ye, dogs, if you dare come near.
Have at ye, then, without a word,
Man enough yet for two or three.
Old fellow, thou hast one friend—thy sword,
For this is the friend that fights for thee!
I'll parley with them. What want ye here?
The splash on my ruffle? Pshaw! 'tis wine,
Will draw on ye, dogs, if you dare come near.
Have at ye, then, without a word,
Man enough yet for two or three.
Old fellow, thou hast one friend—thy sword,
For this is the friend that fights for thee!
| The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard | |