On whole half-sheep, with cunning trick,
His sabre sometimes he’d employ—
No bar of lead, however thick,
Had terrors for the stalwart boy.
At Dover daily he’d prepare
To hew and slash, behind, before—
Which aggravated Monsieur Pierre,
Who watched him from the Calais shore.
It caused good Pierre to swear and dance,
The sight annoyed and vexed him so;
He was the bravest man in France—
He said so, and he ought to know.
“Regardez donc, ce cochon gros—
Ce polisson! Oh, sacré bleu!
Son sabre, son plomb, et ses gigots
Comme cela m’ennuye, enfin, mon Dieu!
“Il sait que les foulards de soie
Give no retaliating whack—
Les gigots morts n’ont pas de quoi—
Le plomb don’t ever hit you back.”
But every day the headstrong lad
Cut lead and mutton more and more;
And every day poor Pierre, half mad,
Shrieked loud defiance from his shore.
Hance had a mother, poor and old,
A simple, harmless village dame,
Who crowed and clapped as people told
Of Winterbottom’s rising fame.
She said, “I’ll be upon the spot
To see my Tommy’s sabre-play;”
And so she left her leafy cot,
And walked to Dover in a day.
Pierre had a doating mother, who
Had heard of his defiant rage;
His Ma was nearly ninety-two,
And rather dressy for her age.
At Hance’s doings every morn,
With sheer delight his mother cried;
And Monsieur Pierre’s contemptuous scorn
Filled his mamma with proper pride.