The Downing legends : Stories in Rhyme The witch of Shiloh, the last of the Wampanoags, the gentle earl, the enchanted voyage |
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 | The Downing legends : Stories in Rhyme |  |
XXVI
“I thought,” our Yankee Caesar writ,
“They didn't mean to come to battle;
An' so I slunk ahead a bit
To shake 'em up an' make 'em rattle.
Besides, I had my ambush sot,
An' couldn't let the joke miscarry,
Because I thought as like as not
'Twould send 'em all to Ancient Harry.
“They didn't mean to come to battle;
An' so I slunk ahead a bit
To shake 'em up an' make 'em rattle.
Besides, I had my ambush sot,
An' couldn't let the joke miscarry,
Because I thought as like as not
'Twould send 'em all to Ancient Harry.
“I took a canter down the van,
An' squinted 'round, an' looked 'em over.
The grenadiers were spick-an-span
In uniforms as fresh as clover;
With streaks of powder down the locks
An' queues a-sawin' crost the collar,
An' eyes a-pop because their stocks
Were tighter than would let 'em swaller;
All standin' stiff at shoulder-whoop,
Their eyes a-front an' toes a-kimber,
Without a slouch in all the troop,
A solid lot of fightin' timber.
The tories filled the hinder rows,
A helter-skelter lot of skinners,
Exactly fit to frighten crows,
Or plunder pickaninnies' dinners.
An' squinted 'round, an' looked 'em over.
The grenadiers were spick-an-span
In uniforms as fresh as clover;
With streaks of powder down the locks
An' queues a-sawin' crost the collar,
An' eyes a-pop because their stocks
Were tighter than would let 'em swaller;
All standin' stiff at shoulder-whoop,
Their eyes a-front an' toes a-kimber,
Without a slouch in all the troop,
A solid lot of fightin' timber.
The tories filled the hinder rows,
A helter-skelter lot of skinners,
Exactly fit to frighten crows,
Or plunder pickaninnies' dinners.
148
“Well purty soon they reckonized
My uniform, or else my figger,
An' looked a leetle mite surprised,
But didn't charge nor pull a trigger.
So thereupon I made a speech,
Though not a talkin' son of thunder;
I told 'em they would never reach
Their port, an' might as well knock under.
I guess it got 'em hoppin' mad;
For officers begun to clatter
Around; an' next the drummers had
A lively hint to start their batter.
My uniform, or else my figger,
An' looked a leetle mite surprised,
But didn't charge nor pull a trigger.
So thereupon I made a speech,
Though not a talkin' son of thunder;
I told 'em they would never reach
Their port, an' might as well knock under.
I guess it got 'em hoppin' mad;
For officers begun to clatter
Around; an' next the drummers had
A lively hint to start their batter.
| The Downing legends : Stories in Rhyme | |