Such a sight soon alarms,
And the guards present arms,
As he glides to the posts that they keep;
Then he gives the brief word,
And the bugle is heard,
Like a hound giving tongue in its sleep.
Next the drums they arouse,
But with dull row-de-dows,
And they give but a somnolent sound;
Whilst the foot and horse, both,
Very slowly and loth,
Begin drowsily mustering round.
To the right and left hand,
They fall in, by command,
In a line that might better be dress’d;
Whilst the steeds blink and nod,
And the lancers think odd
To be rous’d like the spears from their rest.
With their mouths of wide shape,
Mortars seem all agape,
Heavy guns look more heavy with sleep;
And, whatever their bore,
Seem to think it one more
In the night such a field day to keep.
Then the arms, christened small
Fire no volley at all,
But go off, like the rest, in a doze;
And the eagles, poor things,
Tuck their heads ‘neath their wings,
And the band ends in tunes through the nose.
Till each pupil of Mars
Takes a wink like the stars—
Open order no eye can obey!
If the plumes in their heads
Were the feathers of beds,
Never top could be sounder than they!
So, just wishing good night,
Bows Napoleon, polite;
But instead of a loyal endeavour
To reply with a cheer;
Not a sound met his ear,
Though each face seem’d to say, “Nap for ever!”
ODE TO DR. KITCHENER.
