Page:The Bab Ballads.djvu/113

"Regardez, donc, ce cochon gros—
Ce polisson! Oh, sacré bleu!
Son sabre, son plomb, et ses gigots!
Comme cela m'ennuye, enfin, mon Dieu!
 
"Il sait que les foulards de soie
Give no retaliating whack—
Les gigots morts n'ont pas de quoi—
Le plomb don't ever hit you back."
 
But every day the headstrong lad
Cut lead and mutton more and more;
And every day, poor Pierre, half mad,
Shrieked loud defiance from his shore.
 
Hance had a mother, poor and old,
A simple, harmless, village dame,
Who crowed and clapped as people told
Of Winterbottom's rising fame.

She said, "I'll be upon the spot
To see my Tommy's sabre-play;"
And so she left her leafy cot,
And walked to Dover in a day.
 
Pierre had a doting mother, who
Had heard of his defiant rage:
His ma was nearly ninety-two.
And rather dressy for her age.