The little boy struggled and tugged at his hair,
But the lion was roused, and Old Paul didn’t care;
He smacked him, and whacked him, and boxed him, and kicked
Till the poor little beggar was royally licked.
Old Tim knew a trick worth a dozen of that,
So he called for his stick and he called for his hat.
“I’ll cover myself with cheap glory—I’ll go
And wallop the Frenchmen who live in Soho!
“The German invader is ravaging France
With infantry rifle and cavalry lance,
And beautiful Paris is fighting her best
To shake herself free from her terrible guest.
“The Frenchmen in London, in craven alarms,
Have all run away from the summons to arms;
They haven’t the pluck of a pigeon—I’ll go
And wallop the Frenchmen who skulk in Soho!”
Old Timothy tried it and found it succeed:
That day he caused many French noses to bleed;
Through foggy Soho he spread fear and dismay,
And Frenchmen all round him in agony lay.
He took care to abstain from employing his fist
On the old and the crippled, for they might resist;
A crippled old man may have pluck in his breast,
But the young and the strong ones are cowards confest.
Old Tim and Old Paul, with the list of their foes,
Prostrated themselves at their Emily’s toes:
“Oh, which of us two is the pluckier blade?”
And Emily answered and Emily said:
“Old Tim has thrashed runaway Frenchmen in scores,
Who ought to be guarding their cities and shores;
Old Paul has made little chaps’ noses to bleed—
Old Paul has accomplished the pluckier deed!”
THE MYSTIC SELVAGEE
Perhaps already you may know
Sir Blennerhasset Portico?
A Captain in the Navy, he—
A Baronet and K.C.B.
You do? I thought so!
It was that Captain’s favourite whim
(A notion not confined to him)
That Rodney was the greatest tar
Who ever wielded capstan-bar.
He had been taught so.