122
Epistles.
Who can forget what fears the foe possest
When oaken boughs mark'd ev'ry loyal breast!
Less fear'd than Medway's stream the Norman stood
When cross the plain he spy'd a marching wood,
Till near at hand a gleam of swords betray'd 65
The youth of Kent beneath its wand'ring shade.
Those who the succours of the fair despised
May find that we have nails as well as eyes.
Thy female bands, O Prince by Fortune crost!
At least more courage than thy men can boast. 70
Our sex has dar'd the mughouse chiefs to meet,
And purchas'd fame in many a wellfought street:
From Drury-Lane, the region of renown,
The land of love, the Paphos of the Town,
Fair patriots sallying oft' have put to flight 75
With all their poles the guardians of the night,
And bore with screams of triumph to their side
The leader's staff in all its painted pride.
Nor fears the hawker in her warbling note
To vend the discontented statesman's thought, 80
Tho' red with stripes, and recent from the thong,
Sore smitten for the love of sacred song,
The tuneful sisters still pursue their trade
Like Philomela, darkling in the shade.
Poor Trott attends, forgetful of a fare, 85
And hums in concert o'er his easy chair.
Mean-while regardless of the royal cause
His sword for James no brother sov'reign draws;
When oaken boughs mark'd ev'ry loyal breast!
Less fear'd than Medway's stream the Norman stood
When cross the plain he spy'd a marching wood,
Till near at hand a gleam of swords betray'd 65
The youth of Kent beneath its wand'ring shade.
Those who the succours of the fair despised
May find that we have nails as well as eyes.
Thy female bands, O Prince by Fortune crost!
At least more courage than thy men can boast. 70
Our sex has dar'd the mughouse chiefs to meet,
And purchas'd fame in many a wellfought street:
From Drury-Lane, the region of renown,
The land of love, the Paphos of the Town,
Fair patriots sallying oft' have put to flight 75
With all their poles the guardians of the night,
And bore with screams of triumph to their side
The leader's staff in all its painted pride.
Nor fears the hawker in her warbling note
To vend the discontented statesman's thought, 80
Tho' red with stripes, and recent from the thong,
Sore smitten for the love of sacred song,
The tuneful sisters still pursue their trade
Like Philomela, darkling in the shade.
Poor Trott attends, forgetful of a fare, 85
And hums in concert o'er his easy chair.
Mean-while regardless of the royal cause
His sword for James no brother sov'reign draws;
