“In Spanish hands I've bent and swung With Spanish grace and skill; I've scoured Lepanto of the Turk, And Spain of Boabdil; I've clanged throughout the Low Countrie; I've held the Spanish Main;— Ferrara made and fashioned me, In Cordova, In Spain.
“In Scottish hands I've saved the pride That else had starved at home, When under Bourbon's banner wide We swept through Holy Rome; In private fight I've cleared the slight That Beauty's brow would stain;— Ferrara made and fashioned me, In Cordova, in Spain.
“At Killiecrankie with Dundee I've struck for James the King; The blood-red waters of the Boyne Have heard my metal ring; Again with Mar at Sherriff-muir I've raised the olden strain;— Ferrara made and fashioned me, In Cordova, in Spain.
“Along the line at Fontenoy I've flashed in wild parade, When on the English columns fell The strength of Clare's Brigade; I've stood for Bonnie Charles until Culloden's fatal plain;— Ferrara made and fashioned me, In Cordova, in Spain.
“But now in exiled hands I rust Beside the salt sea's marge, And though I dream of trumpet call, Of rally, and of charge, Of screaming fife, and throbbing drum, As troops defile in train,— I wake to hear the wailing moan Of the imprisoning Main— Dead is all Glory! Dead all Fame! Will never sound that song again— That great, world-wakening refrain?— Ferrara made and fashioned me, In Cordova, in Spain.”
There was a spontaneous outburst of applause as I ended, for I had seldom made a better effort, and my closing lines but echoed a sentiment common to us all—that is, of all of us who were soldiers. Such a creature as Prévost could never have a generous impulse stir the weighing-machine which served him in lieu of a soul; and Sarennes was spoiled for nobler aims by the debasing influence of la petite guerre, dear to all Canadians. So M. Prévost saw fit to refrain from all applause; and Sarennes, foolish boy, for boy he was, in spite of his thirty years, was ill-bred enough to follow his example.
“M. Prévost, surely you are over-critical when you do not applaud,” said M. de St. Julhien, banteringly. “Remember we are not in the rue St. Honoré, though I would trust this voice even there.”
“You have more faith in that, then, than he has in his sword. He puts it in Spanish and Scotch hands. Why not in French?” snapped out the little centipede, virulently.
“Possibly there are some French hands in which he would not trust it,” retorted M. de Julhien, to our great delight.
“Do your words bear that construction?” asked the nettled Commissary, turning on me.