Volume 103 — "WITH THE HONOURS OF WAR."
Reading edition
After long fight and strenuous defence, Tenacity tremendous, toil immense, The garrison surrenders! 'Tis the doom Of desperate war; and though a sombre gloom Sits on each brow, each brow is lifted high, No petulant pusillanimity Makes poor this last parade of stout defenders, Or shames this most unwilling of surrenders. Six lingering years, and more, of hot attack, By confident cool valour beaten back! Six baffling years of sortie, and of sally, Sudden alarum, stubborn stand, stout rally! How the besiegers in their bannered host Banded at first around this bastion'd post, In sanguine, fierce assault, and shook their spears, Strong hopes derided, mocked at fancied fears. The Citadel's defence was all in vain, They vowed; a year should end the brief campaign; Yet year to year succeeded slow, and still The garrison held out. Strategic skill And not impetuous onset nought availed; The battering-ram and scaling-ladder failed. Brief breaches scarcely made were swift repaired, United still all deadly arms they dared, Those linked defenders who, aforetime foes, Their lately-banded ranks could firmly close Against old friends, now common enemies. Black CECIL was Commander, BALFOUR brave The Union Standard in his wake would wave, The Reiter JOACHIM, of German breed, And the Scot swordster RITCHIE, good at need, With him, the fox-eyed Freelance, JOE DE BRUM, Brave with the trumpet, valiant with the drum, Proud to be capped and curled with Cavaliers, The Gentlemen of England, now his peers,— These, and a many more good men and true, The ramparts manned, the warning clarion blew; Stood in the breach, and to the bastion swarmed, Whene'er loud blares that citadel alarmed. But now slow sap and steady siege have wrought The conquest long delayed. The Chiefs that fought So long together, feel the touch of fate, Bow to its bidding. Calm though not elate, Swart CECIL yields him at discretion. So The garrison marches forth! But e'en the foe Gives chivalrous salute to beaten men Unshamed by forced surrender. Hail them, then, With sympathetic cheers! The white-haired Chief, Lifts hat in greeting. He, all brawn and beef, WILLIAM of Malwood, bears the banner high, But scarce looks fired, with conquest's ecstasy. JOHN of Newcastle, reins a restive horse; He's none too eager for another course. The one-armed Irish Chief looks pale and grim; E'en cheery LARRY, of the cynic whim, Hath a less careless chuckle than his wont. "Beshrew me! but they bear a gallant front!" Mutter the pikemen ranged in order round. Sore-battered RITCHIE,—may he soon be sound!— Bates not a jot of courage; that stark fighter And shifty swordsman, JOACHIM: the Reiter, Snuffs the air proudly; with his nose a-cock Steps JOE DE BRUM, and, steady as a rock, Strides forth Chief CECIL! Hail the beaten band, You Grand, and grey-haired, Old Campaigning Hand; For you have seen good fighting, and you know Game foemen when you see them. Conquest's glow Mantles that pallid cheek. After long strain, Victory at last is yours, nor all in vain, Perchance, although its fruits precarious be. What you will do with it, we wait to see. Meanwhile you'll own the foes you've put to rout. With all war's honours unashamed march out.
SO MATTER-OF-FACT.
Jones (who prides himself on his French). "DÉSOLÉ, MON CHER, NOT TO BE ABLE TO ACCEPT YOUR HOSPITALITY, BUT TO-NIGHT I AM DINING EN VILLE."
Brown (who is so matter-of-fact, and never will understand Jones's French). "DINING 'ON VEAL,' ARE YOU? WELL, THERE'S NOT MUCH DIFFERENCE; IF YOU COME TO ME, YOU'LL HAVE A LEG O' MUTTON!"
MAKE IT HOT.—Dean KITCHIN says that one of his reasons for voting for the Gladstonians is that he is "a warm Liberal." Quite so. A cold KITCHIN would be a contradiction in terms.
