XIX.
"A precious lark!" the foremost cried;
"Come—twig him, Tom! come—pin him, Roger!"
"Who is it?" Then a sage replied—
"He's some infernal foreign sodger!
He looks as how he'd scored ere now
Some shoulders black and blue with lashes
So pitch him here into the beer—
And, lads—we'll pull off his moustaches!"
XX.
They did—what brutal natures scorn.
What savages would shrink to do—
What none but basest cowards born,
And the most abject and most few,
Would offer to an old man's head!
O shame—O shame to Englishmen!
If the old spirit be not dead,
'Tis time it showed itself again!
XXI.
What! in this land which shelter gave
To all, whatever their degree,
Or were they faint, or were they brave,
Or were they slaves, or were they free—
In this Asylum of the Earth—
The noblest name it ever won—
Shall deeds like these pollute our hearth,
Shall open shame like this be done?
XXII.
O most ignoble end of all
Our boasted order and renown!
The robber in the tribune's hall—
The maltster in the Judge's gown!
The hospitable roof profaned;
Old age by ruffian force opprest,
And English hands most vilely stained
With blood of an unconscious guest!
XXIII.
O Freedom! if thou wouldst maintain
Thy empire on the British shore,
Wash from thy robes that coward stain,
Resume thy ancient garb once more.
In virgin whiteness walk abroad,
Maintain thy might from sea to sea,
And, as the dearest gift of God,
So men shall live and die for thee!
[Dies Boreales.]
No. VIII.
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS.
Camp at Cladich.
Scene—The Wren's Nest.