Classic Poem

Asks anyone — " Where's a tag for steps ?"
I answer — " Waiting its time
Till somebody versed in the English tongue
Shall start at the challenge, cry " Unsung
Till now, and all for want of a rhyme,
Is the prowess of Kentish Epps? " "

Two hundred and eighty years ago
Befell the siege of Ostend;
Epps soldiered it there: and, hew or hack
At his breast as the enemy might, his back
Got never a scratch: yet life must end
Somehow, — Epps ended — so!

He had lost an eye on the walls, look out
No longer could Epps: said he —
" Give me Saint George's cross — our flag
To carry: I can't see them — foes brag:
At all events they shall soon see me,
Knight and knave, lord and lout!"

" Epps got loose again!" yelped the curs:
" At him — the blind side best!
Together as one — in a rush, on a heap,
Buffet the maimed old bull! Fame's cheap
This morn for whoso has mind to wrest
Yon flag from his hold, win spurs!"

As a big wave bursts on a rock, broke they
On bannerman Epps: as staunch
The drowned rock stands, but emerging feels
Weeds late on its head lie loose at its heels,
So left bare, swirl — stript; root and branch,
Of his band stood Epps — laughed gay:

" I with my flag — that's well, no fear
The colours stick to the staff:
But the staff 'tis a mere hand holds — lets fall
If there stab me or shoot one knave of them all:
To hinder which game — " I hear Epps laugh —
" Stick, flag, to a new staff — here!"

And off in a trice from the staff that's wood,
And on to a staff that's flesh,
Tears Epps and ties me tight round his breast
The flag in a red swathe: " Here's the vest
For my lifelong wear; at the foe afresh!
Staff, show flag's hardihood!"

Whereat, in a twinkling, man and horse
Went down — one, two and three,
And how many more? But they shot and slashed:
Two bullets have riddled, two sword-blades gashed
The staff through the flag, — leave free
To despoilers, — you think, — a corse?

No! Back from his slayers, staggeringly
But, staff-like stout to the last,
Up to his mates — of the checked advance —
Reels Epps, his soul in his countenance,
As he falters " See! Flag to the staff sticks fast,
And, flag saved, staff may die!"

And die did Epps, with his English round:
Not so the fame of the feat:
For Donne and Dekker, brave poets and rare,
Gave it honour and praise: and I join the pair
With a heart that's loud though my voice compete
As a pipe with their trumpet-sound!