XI.

Quoth I, “Since Fate ordains it so,
Our foe the coast must land on";—­
I felt so warm beside the fire
I cared not to abandon;
Our hearths and homes are always things
That patriots make a stand on.

XII.

“The fools that fight abroad for home,”
Thought I, “may get a wrong one;
Let those who have no homes at all
Go battle for a long one.” 
The mirror here confirm’d me this
Reflection, by a strong one.

XIII.

For there, where I was wont to shave,
And deck me like Adonis,
There stood the leader of our foes,
With vultures for his armies—­
No Corsican, but Death himself,
The Bony of all Bonies.

XIV.

A horrid sight it was, and sad,
To see the grisly chap
Put on my crimson livery,
And then begin to clap
My helmet on—­ah me! it felt
Like any felon’s cap.

XV.

My plume seem’d borrow’d from a hearse,
An undertaker’s crest;
My epaulette’s like coffin-plates;
My belt so heavy press’d,
Four pipeclay cross-roads seem’d to lie
At once upon my breast.

XVI.

My brazen breast-plate only lack’d
A little heap of salt,
To make me like a corpse full dress’d,
Preparing for the vault—­
To set up what the Poet calls
My everlasting halt.

XVII.

This funeral show inclined me quite
To peace:—­and here I am! 
Whilst better lions go to war,
Enjoying with the lamb
A lengthen’d life, that might have been
A Martial Epigram.

THE EPPING HUNT.[28]

[Footnote 28:  Originally published in 1830 in a thin duodecimo, with illustrations by George Cruikshank.  It was while Hood was living at Winchmore Hill that he had the opportunity of noting the chief features of this once famous Civic Revel—­the Easter Monday Hunt—­even then in its decadence.]

ADVERTISEMENT.

Striding in the Steps of Strutt—­The historian of the old English ports—­the author of the following pages has endeavored to record a yearly revel, already fast hastening to decay.  The Easter phase will soon be numbered with the pastimes of past times:  its dogs will have had their day, and its Deer will be Fallow.  A few more seasons, and this City Common Hunt will become uncommon.

  In proof of this melancholy decadance, the ensuing epistle is
  inserted.  It was penned by an underling at the Kells, a person more
  accustomed to riding than writing:—­