English Roses :: :: University of Virginia Library

It was Tommy and I, and we took it
And a precious warm place;
But we deemed it disgrace
Guns were captured, and we could not brook it—
No such damnable wrongs!
We saluted the Colonel, and lightly,
Sallied out, with our belts buckled tightly,
Trim for hammer and tongs.
We desired a good thing and a racket
And a row with some dust on the jacket,
With the pudding served hot
And a tumble and tussle,
For the best bone and muscle—
And my comrades, you bet, this we got.
For, you see, we had merely done nothing,
We were sick of just putting on clothing
And then putting it off,
Though it looked deucèd smart,
And the waiting till seasons grew riper;
Should the enemy scoff,
At our lacking of heart?
We were ready, and would pay the piper,
And were spoiling for fun and the fray—
So away!

We had plenty of redcoats to follow,
Of the hardiest kind—
Not one laggard behind,
Who could beat thrice their company hollow
And were hungry to go;
Just the safe sort for fighting or revels
Tough and true, stiff as steel and dare-devils,
Saucy hands at a blow.
We had more for the work than we needed,
It was hard for such grit to be weeded
When brave fellows were fain,

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With a chance for some glory
And pro patria mori—
To be silent of commoner gain.
When we peeled our superfluous matter,
Not a sound of cheap frivolous chatter;
We gave messages too
And our treasures in trust,
For dear kinsfolks and friends and the ladies;
We had business to do,
And as Englishmen must—
If their road is as dark as to Hades.
It was honour, though death, not defeat
Or retreat.

I must own my remembrance is hazy,
As to each small event;
We were jolly content
To advance, if the foes thought us crazy—
And they holding our guns!
We would strike at their blooming battalions,
And knock over some scores of rapscallions—
Mischief take him who runs!
We felt shamed by that infamous capture,
And were burning with hope and the rapture
Of regaining the loss;
Though this poor Adam's image,
In the scramble and scrimmage
Shed a bit of its beauty and gloss.
I confess I did think of my mother
With a catch in the throat, and another
Who was worthy a sob;
Though she shied after all,
Like a foolish and unbroken filly,
And then married “White Bob!”
Bolting, Sir, at a ball;
He was richer, no doubt, but half silly.
And it lighted me forth, and afar—
Dick's cigar.

I recall my dead chum, who was smoking
An uncommon nice weed,

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As he wished us God speed!
And we parted at length with grave joking,
I and grim sober Dick.
He was touched with the fever and achey,
And though eager enough far too shakey;
But he was rather sick,
Just to miss what he wanted, adventures,
And to write with red sword their indentures
On a nigger or two;
At the point and the parry,
He could fence with old Harry
And the winner would be—I know who.
But the grip of his honest brown fingers,
Were a part of the pleasure that lingers—
They seem warming me now;
And his earnest gray eyes
Looked in mine with a gaze past expression
From a puckering brow,
As in sorry surmise—
But he did not waste words of profession.
And that perfume had carried me well,
Into hell.

'Twas an hour ere the dawn when we started
And yet blacker than pitch,
With a thundering ditch
To be crossed—but we all were whole-hearted,
And quite equal to that—
Yes, as strong as they make them, a dozen—
We would conquer them somehow, or cozen
The defenders thereat.
And prepared for the roughest of shindies
That had ever been known in the Indies,
We crept quietly on
Through the murk and the mazes,
While our blood leapt like blazes
For the terrible calm to be gone.
Thank the Lord, by good luck we got over,
But to find ourselves still not in clover,
Slogging hard, give and take,

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Bayonet and the ball;
Though for them we were just a bit early,
They were now wide awake
And as bitter as gall,
When we closed in the mad hurly-burly.
And I prayed, the first time, nothing loath—
With an oath.

We were death on those guns, sir, and willing
For the ugliest strife—
No one recked about life,
It was only the wild lust of killing;
Not a quaver had room,
We were loaded right up to the muzzle
And to get in more shot were a puzzle,
While our meaning was doom.
I got grazed once or twice, but felt little,
And I knew nigger's bones were but brittle
As I taught them to spin;
It was like cutting carrots,
And they screeched as their parrots
When my sword in the gravy slipt in.
So we drove the scared sheep in a huddle,
Ankle deep now in many a puddle
Which looked ghastly and red,
In the dull morning light;
Till they made their last desperate rally,
And behind on my head
Fell a blow, and rushed night.
But sheer cusseduess won in that sally,
And my skull always was (though so scarr'd)
Jolly hard.