Stubbs too, of Brentford Green the rose,
Would have essayed to pour
On one—on all, his wrath red hot
As blacksmith’s anvil, had he not
Been hanged the day before.
Illustrious brave if muse like mine
May bid for aye, your memories shine
In fame’s recording page;
Each wounded limb, each fractured head,
Albeit tacked up in honour’s bed,