The rest were Jacks and Gills and Wills and Bills; But when I’ve added that the elder Jack Smith Was born in Cumberland among the hills, And that his father was an honest blacksmith, I’ve said all I know of a name that fills Three lines of the despatch in taking ‘Schmacksmith,’ A village of Moldavia’s waste, wherein He fell, immortal in a bulletin. I wonder (although Mars no doubt ’s a god I Praise) if a man’s name in a bulletin May make up for a bullet in his body? I hope this little question is no sin, Because, though I am but a simple noddy, I think one Shakspeare puts the same thought in The mouth of some one in his plays so doting, Which many people pass for wits by quoting. Then there were Frenchmen, gallant, young, and gay: But I’m too great a patriot to record Their Gallic names upon a glorious day; I’d rather tell ten lies than say a word Of truth;—such truths are treason; they betray Their country; and as traitors are abhorr’d Who name the French in English, save to show How Peace should make John Bull the Frenchman’s foe. The Russians, having built two batteries on An isle near Ismail, had two ends in view; The first was to bombard it, and knock down The public buildings and the private too, No matter what poor souls might be undone. The city’s shape suggested this, ’tis true; Form’d like an amphitheatre, each dwelling Presented a fine mark to throw a shell in. The second object was to profit by The moment of the general consternation, To attack the Turk’s flotilla, which lay nigh Extremely tranquil, anchor’d at its station: But a third motive was as probably To frighten them into capitulation; A phantasy which sometimes seizes warriors, Unless they are game as bull-dogs and fox-terriers. A habit rather blamable, which is That of despising those we combat with, Common in many cases, was in this The cause of killing Tchitchitzkoff and Smith; One of the valorous ‘Smiths’ whom we shall miss Out of those nineteen who late rhymed to ‘pith;’ But ’tis a name so spread o’er ‘Sir’ and ‘Madam,’ That one would think the first who bore it ‘Adam.’ The Russian batteries were incomplete, Because they were constructed in a hurry; Thus the same cause which makes a verse want feet, And throws a cloud o’er Longman and John Murray, When the sale of new books is not so fleet As they who print them think is necessary, May likewise put off for a time what story Sometimes calls ‘murder,’ and at others ‘glory.’ Whether it was their engineer’s stupidity, Their haste, or waste, I neither know nor care, Or some contractor’s personal cupidity, Saving his soul by cheating in the ware Of homicide, but there was no solidity In the new batteries erected there; They either miss’d, or they were never miss’d, And added greatly to the missing list.