Here rests, and let no saucy knave
Presume to sneer and laugh,
To learn that mouldering in the grave
Is laid a British calf.

For he who writes these lines is sure
That those who read the whole
Will find such laugh were premature,
For here, too, lies a sole.

And here five little ones repose,
Twin-born with other five;
Unheeded by their brother toes,
Who now are all alive.

A leg and foot to speak more plain
Lie here, of one commanding;
Who, though his wits he might retain,
Lost half his understanding.

And when the guns, with thunder fraught,
Pour’d bullets thick as hail,
Could only in this way be taught
To give his foe leg-bail.

And now in England, just as gay –
As in the battle brave –
Goes to the rout, review, or play,
With one foot in the grave.

Fortune in vain here showed her spite,
For he will still be found,
Should England’s sons engage in fight,
Resolved to stand his ground.

But fortune’s pardon I must beg,
She meant not to disarm;
And when she lopped the hero’s leg
By no means sought his h-arm,

And but indulged a harmless whim,
Since he could walk with one,
She saw two legs were lost on him
Who never meant to run.

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