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.
But Hance’s powers began to fail—
His constitution was not strong—
And Pierre, who once was stout and hale,
Grew thin from shouting all day long.
Their mothers saw them pale and wan,
Maternal anguish tore each breast,
And so they met to find a plan
To set their offsprings’ minds at rest.
Said Mrs. Hance, “Of course I shrinks
From bloodshed, ma’am, as you’re aware,
But still they’d better meet, I thinks.”
“Assurément!” said Madame Pierre.
A sunny spot in sunny France
Was hit upon for this affair;
The ground was picked by Mrs. Hance,
The stakes were pitched by Madame Pierre.
Said Mrs. H., “Your work you see—
Go in, my noble boy, and win.”
“En garde, mon fils!” said Madame P.
“Allons!” “Go on!” “En garde!” “Begin!”
(The mothers were of decent size,
Though not particularly tall;
But in the sketch that meets your eyes
I’ve been obliged to draw them small.)