  He fell in victory’s fierce pursuit, Holed through and through with shot, A sabre sweep had hacked him deep ’Twixt neck and shoulder-knot.... The potman cannot well recall, The ostler never knew, Whether his day was Malplaquet, The Boyne, or Waterloo. But there he hangs for tavern sign, With foolish bold regard For cock and hen and loitering men And wagons down the yard. Raised high above the hayseed world He smokes his painted pipe, And now surveys the orchard ways, The damsons clustering ripe. He sees the churchyard slabs beyond, Where country neighbours lie, Their brief renown set lowly down; His name assaults the sky. He grips the tankard of brown ale That spills a generous foam: Oft-times he drinks, they say, and winks At drunk men lurching home. No upstart hero may usurp That honoured swinging seat; His seasons pass with pipe and glass Until the tale’s complete. And paint shall keep his buttons bright Though all the world’s forgot Whether he died for England’s pride By battle, or by pot. |
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