A batch of war ballads By Martin F. Tupper |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
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| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. | XI.
THE BITER BIT. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
 | A batch of war ballads |  |
26
XI. THE BITER BIT.
He thought the time was come at last,
The full four hundredth year,—
That destiny the die had cast,
And there was nought to fear;
That St. Sophia's new-named dome
Should gladden Catherine's soul,
And the blest day at length was come
When he might see Stamboul!
The full four hundredth year,—
That destiny the die had cast,
And there was nought to fear;
That St. Sophia's new-named dome
Should gladden Catherine's soul,
And the blest day at length was come
When he might see Stamboul!
He thought that Peter's embryo dream
Was ready to be born,—
That he was doom'd to clench the scheme,
And clutch the Golden Horn;
That England cared not for the Turk,
And gloried in the Czar,—
And France had rather too much work
At home to wish for war.
Was ready to be born,—
That he was doom'd to clench the scheme,
And clutch the Golden Horn;
That England cared not for the Turk,
And gloried in the Czar,—
And France had rather too much work
At home to wish for war.
He thought that Louis Nap himself
Was Britain's fear and scorn,—
That Austria pined for want of pelf
In bankruptcy forlorn,—
That Blanc, Mazzini, and Kossuth
Kept every king in dread,—
And so he plann'd to cross the Pruth
And fiercely go ahead!
Was Britain's fear and scorn,—
That Austria pined for want of pelf
In bankruptcy forlorn,—
27
Kept every king in dread,—
And so he plann'd to cross the Pruth
And fiercely go ahead!
He thought,—I'll pick a quarrel now
With that weak Turk at home,
My Menskickoff shall make a row
About the Church of Rome,
Or Monks, or Greeks, or anything
Or nothing,—that's the plan,—
An orthodox and Christian king
Shall quarrel, as he can!
With that weak Turk at home,
My Menskickoff shall make a row
About the Church of Rome,
Or Monks, or Greeks, or anything
Or nothing,—that's the plan,—
An orthodox and Christian king
Shall quarrel, as he can!
So down stole Bruin from his frost
In hairy strength of limb;
But lightly did he count the cost
Of such a march to him:
The way was long; the Turk too strong;
And all the world agreed
That injured Right from rampant Wrong
Should sturdily be freed!
In hairy strength of limb;
But lightly did he count the cost
Of such a march to him:
The way was long; the Turk too strong;
And all the world agreed
That injured Right from rampant Wrong
Should sturdily be freed!
He found that England stood with France
Against him in array,—
And Bruin cursed his sad mischance,
But could not get away;
Baffled, and to destruction hurl'd,
And caught in his own pit,—
The wondering and applauding world
Beholds the Biter Bit!
Against him in array,—
And Bruin cursed his sad mischance,
But could not get away;
Baffled, and to destruction hurl'd,
And caught in his own pit,—
The wondering and applauding world
Beholds the Biter Bit!
| A batch of war ballads | |