* * * * * * * *
He wrote to say he’d play the part.
I’ve but to tell he played it well—
The author’s words—his native wit
Combined, achieved a perfect “hit”—
The papers praised him greatly.
THE TWO MAJORS
An excellent soldier who’s worthy the name
Loves officers dashing and strict:
When good, he’s content with escaping all blame,
When naughty, he likes to be licked.
He likes for a fault to be bullied and stormed,
Or imprisoned for several days,
And hates, for a duty correctly performed,
To be slavered with sickening praise.
No officer sickened with praises his corps
So little as Major La Guerre—
No officer swore at his warriors more
Than Major Makredi Prepere.
Their soldiers adored them, and every grade
Delighted to hear their abuse;
Though whenever these officers came on parade
They shivered and shook in their shoes.
For, oh! if La Guerre could all praises withhold,
Why, so could Makredi Prepere,
And, oh! if Makredi could bluster and scold,
Why, so could the mighty La Guerre.
“No doubt we deserve it—no mercy we crave—
Go on—you’re conferring a boon;
We would rather be slanged by a warrior brave,
Than praised by a wretched poltroon!”
Makredi would say that in battle’s fierce rage
True happiness only was met:
Poor Major Makredi, though fifty his age,
Had never known happiness yet!