But Baines lay flat upon the floor,
Convulsed with sympathetic sob;—
The Captain toddled off next door,
And gave the case to Mr. Cobb.
THOMAS WINTERBOTTOM HANCE
In all the towns and cities fair
On Merry England’s broad expanse,
No swordsman ever could compare
With Thomas Winterbottom Hance.
The dauntless lad could fairly hew
A silken handkerchief in twain,
Divide a leg of mutton too—
And this without unwholesome strain.
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.