XII
Then as a mastiff swallows the snarling noises of cats,
The voice of the farmer opened. ‘“Three cheers, and off with your hats!”
—That’s Tom. “We’ve beaten them, Daddy, and tough work it was, to be sure!
A regular stand-up combat: eight hours smelling powder and gore.
I entered it Serjeant-Major,”—and now he commands a salute,
And carries the flag of old England! Heigh! see him lift foes on his foot!
XIII
‘—An officer! ay, Miss Charlworth, he is, or he is so to be;
You’ll own war isn’t such humbug: and Glory means something, you see.
“But don’t say a word,” he continues, “against the brave French any more.”
—That stopt me: we’ll now march together. I couldn’t read further before.
That “brave French” I couldn’t stomach. He can’t see their cunning to get
Us Britons to fight their battles, while best half the winnings they net!’