When forth a stately figure strode,
Of stature such, of such a mode,
As those who lived before the flood,
If stuff'd with straw.
His vigor seem'd by years unbroke;
But then his phiz had such a look,
As if preserved in Etna's smoke
For half an age.
God help us all to look our best!
This man was captain of the rest,
And valor seem'd to fire his breast
With martial rage.
His horse was of an iron grey;
(A prancing steed he rode that day,)
Not of the bold virginian breed,
Nor yet remote from Quixote's steed.
This chief was of the bullet mould;
To meet the conflict, firm and bold,
His coat was patch'd, his boots new soal'd,
Ham stuff'd his maw:
Two pounds of powder fill'd his horn,
His pantaloons were old and worn,
A cap and hat his head adorn—
The chapeau bras.
With vengeance heated, long in store,
He sallied forth, a man of war;
And all that meet him, pray take care
Of rusty pikes.
He had no helmet for the head,
But death and ruin near him tread,
And slaughter, in a suit of red,
That deadly strikes.
A blanket from his shoulders hung,
Three dollars in his pockets rung,
And to his thigh a faulchion clung,
That made us quake:
A veteran in the fighting trade!
The owner of so keen a blade!
Do not provoke him, man or maid,
For mercy's sake.