 | The Hebrew |  |
8
EPILOGUE, BY J. R. PLANCHE, ESQ.
May I come in? your pleasure, let me know it;
I'm sent to sound a parley by the Poet.
When for that service first he fix'd to choose me,
I answered, with a curtsey, “Sir, excuse me.”
Why what dost fear, he cried, thou silly goose,
Dost think they'll fire upon a flag of truce?
Go, trumpet-tongued, this peaceful message bear
To the besiegers in the outworks there;
Tell them our garrison can't stand their shot,
If they intend to fire it hissing hot;
Vain all defence, the fort must fall for certain,
Adieu to horn-work, covered way, and curtain;
They, therefore, e'er they're all made “food for worms,”
Surrender upon honorable terms.
Away, he added, be an humble pleader,
Or they'll attack our band, and kill the leader.
His fears thus hastily the author told me,
Then ope'd the sally-port, and here behold me.
I'm sent to sound a parley by the Poet.
When for that service first he fix'd to choose me,
I answered, with a curtsey, “Sir, excuse me.”
Why what dost fear, he cried, thou silly goose,
Dost think they'll fire upon a flag of truce?
Go, trumpet-tongued, this peaceful message bear
To the besiegers in the outworks there;
Tell them our garrison can't stand their shot,
If they intend to fire it hissing hot;
Vain all defence, the fort must fall for certain,
Adieu to horn-work, covered way, and curtain;
They, therefore, e'er they're all made “food for worms,”
Surrender upon honorable terms.
Away, he added, be an humble pleader,
Or they'll attack our band, and kill the leader.
His fears thus hastily the author told me,
Then ope'd the sally-port, and here behold me.
What force you're in, one charge, and you must rout us;
What batteries on all the heights about us.
Critics, your heavy troops; and Beaux, your light ones,
Have you got serjeants?—O yes, plenty, white ones.
Of conquest sure, their very looks are killing,
And all hearts must confess their skill at drilling.
First, then, I'll ask the officers' compassion;
Next rank and file, I should say, rank and fashion,
Let me crave your's; express your satisfaction,
You half-price corps, who last came into action.
And you of the artillery brigade,
Whose greatest glory is a cannonade.
The word has been attention, grant our prayer,
And let to-morrow's word be—as you were.
Let not our hope be a forlorn one made,
But as a feu-de-joi, each fire a hand grenade:
So shall our Hebrew glad his wandering nation,
And gain “the promised land”—your approbation.
What batteries on all the heights about us.
Critics, your heavy troops; and Beaux, your light ones,
Have you got serjeants?—O yes, plenty, white ones.
Of conquest sure, their very looks are killing,
And all hearts must confess their skill at drilling.
First, then, I'll ask the officers' compassion;
Next rank and file, I should say, rank and fashion,
Let me crave your's; express your satisfaction,
You half-price corps, who last came into action.
And you of the artillery brigade,
Whose greatest glory is a cannonade.
The word has been attention, grant our prayer,
And let to-morrow's word be—as you were.
Let not our hope be a forlorn one made,
But as a feu-de-joi, each fire a hand grenade:
So shall our Hebrew glad his wandering nation,
And gain “the promised land”—your approbation.
| The Hebrew | |