Classic Poem

Yes—we excel in arts and arms,
In learning's lore, and beauty's charms;
The sea's wide empire we engross,
All nations hail the British cross;
The land of liberty we tread,
And wo to his devoted head,
Who dares the contrary advance,
One Englishman's worth ten of France.
These, these are truths what man won't write for,
Won't swear, won't bully, and won't fight for?
Yet (tho' perhaps I speak thro' vanity)
Wou'd we'd a little more humanity!
Too far, I fear, I've drove the jest,
So leave to Cock and Bull the rest.
A Bull who'd listen'd to the vows
Of above fifteen hundred cows,
And serv'd his master fresh and fresh,
With hecatombs of special flesh,
Like to an hermit, or a dervise,
Grown old and feeble in the service,
Now left the meadow's green parade,
And sought a solitary shade.
The cows proclaim'd by mournful moowing
The Bull's deficiency in wooing,
And to their disappointed master
All told the terrible disaster.
Is this the case (quoth Hodge) O rare!
But hold, to-morrow is the fair:
Thou to thy doom, old boy, art fated
To-morrow—and thou shalt be baited—
The deed was done—Curse on the wrong!
Bloody description, hold thy tongue—
Victorious yet the Bull return'd,
And with stern silence inly mourn'd.
A vet'ran, brave, majestic Cock,
Who serv'd for hour-glass, guard and clock,
Who crow'd the mansion's first relief,
Alike from goblin and from thief;
Whose youth escap'd the Christmas skillet,
Whose vigour brav'd the Shrovetide billet,
Had just return'd in wounds and pain,
Triumphant from the barbarous main.
By riv'lets brink, with trees o'ergrown,
He heard his fellow-suff'rer moan,
And greatly scorning wounds and smart,
Gave him three cheers with all his heart.
“Rise, neighbour, from that pensive attitude,
Brave witness of vile man's ingratitude,
And let us both with spur and horn
The cruel reasoning monster scorn—
Methinks at ev'ry dawn of day,
When first I chant my blithsome lay,
Methinks I hear from out the sky
‘All will be better by and by.’
When bloody, base, degenerate man,
Who deviates from his maker's plan,
Who Nature and her work abuses,
And thus his fellow-servants uses,
Shall greatly, and yet justly, want
The mercy he refused to grant.
And, when his heart, his conscience purges,
Shall wish to be the brute he scourges.”
He bids thy countenance be bold,—
Confirm'd his saving health behold,
Nor dread th' avenger's rod:
In him thy confidence repose,
Tho' still ten thousand are thy foes,
Yet he is still thy God.