And when the guns, with thunder fraught, Poured bullets thick as hail, Could only in this way be taught To give the foe leg-bail.
And now in England, just as gay As in the battle brave, Goes to a rout, review, or play, With one foot in the grave.
Fortune in vain here showed her spite, For he will still be found, Should England's sons engage in fight, Resolved to stand his ground.
But Fortune's pardon I must beg; She meant not to disarm, For when she lopped the hero's leg, She did not seek his harm.
And but indulged a harmless whim; Since he could walk with one, She saw two legs were lost on him, Who never meant to run.
GEORGE CANNING.
RUDOLPH THE HEADSMAN. FROM "THIS IS IT."
Rudolph, professor of the headsman's trade, Alike was famous for his arm and blade. One day a prisoner Justice had to kill Knelt at the block to test the artist's skill. Bare-armed, swart-visaged, gaunt, and shaggy-browed, Rudolph the headsman rose above the crowd. His falchion lightened with a sudden gleam, As the pike's armor flashes in the stream. He sheathed his blade; he turned as if to go; The victim knelt, still waiting for the blow. "Why strikest not? Perform thy murderous act," The prisoner said. (His voice was slightly cracked.) "Friend, I have struck," the artist straight replied; "Wait but one moment, and yourself decide." He held his snuff-box,—"Now then, if you please!" The prisoner sniffed, and, with a crashing sneeze, Off his head tumbled, bowled along the floor, Bounced down the steps;—the prisoner said no more.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
SONG OF ONE ELEVEN YEARS IN PRISON