‘My ambition unsated, my fury unquenched, Let Europe now shake to her bases: For my banner unfurl’d, I defy all the world, And _spit in th’ ambassadors’ faces_.’ 5. Seeing raw-head and bloody bones wondrous irate, Talley turn’d o’er the leaf with his finger; ‘Here’s Hanover--if--’ ‘If what?’ in a tiff Cries Boney, ‘Tell Mortier to bring her. 6. ‘Let her bleed till her life strings are ready to burst, To drain her let Massena shew you; The job being done, And all her fat run, We’ll give up her trunk to--_you know who_. 7. ‘This will do for a breakfast--read on.’ Talley read, Each page they conn’d over and over, ‘I can find nothing here; We must stop, Sir, I fear.’ Boney scowl’d, _and then pointed to Dover_. 8. ‘Shall I want employ--whilst a breed there exists So sleek, and so tempting to slaughter? Reach my cleaver and steel, I’ll not sit at a meal-- Till’--Talley cries ‘Think of the _Water_.’ 9. ‘A soul such as mine, by the Koran I swear, Such childish impediment scorns, Sir; I will bait this great Bull, And his crest I will pull.’ Cries Talley ‘_Remember his horns, Sir_.’ 10. ‘Psha! my mouth ’gins to water, and yearns for the feast, Such dainty, such delicate picking; By his horns I will seize him, Goad, worry, and teaze him:’ Quoth Talley--‘_He’s given to kicking_.’ 11. ‘Let him kick, let him toss, and for mercy implore, Be mine the proud task to refuse it; The fates shall obey, I will have my way;’ Talley mutters, ‘_I hope you won’t lose it_.’ 12. ‘Sound the cleaver and marrow bones,’ Boney exclaims, ‘Strait this herd in my power shall be, Sir;’ ‘Should you once reach the shore,’ (Talley said somewhat lower,) ‘You’ll soon be at top of the tree, Sir.’ 13. ‘Don’t jest with thy master, thou recreant knave! Am I, Sir, or am I, Sir, no king? By the Prophet I swear’-- ‘Cry you mercy--forbear!’ Quoth Talley, ‘_I thought you were joking_.’ 14. ‘Am I such a lover of jibes or of jests, Do I ever smile?’ Boney cried, ‘Sir;’ ‘No, that I may say But to blast or betray;’ (But this, Talley uttered aside, Sir.) 15. He calls on Great Mahomet, swears by his beard, The Lama he begs to be civil; Now tells all his complaints To the Calendar Saints, And now sends them all to the Devil. 16. _Thus prepared_, he clasp’d firm the dread steel in his hand And wielded his cleaver on high, Sir;-- ‘Oh thou Bull, thou _Grand Bête_! Oh thou barb of my Fate! This day thou most surely shalt die, Sir!’ 17. Tho’ artful and cunning some madmen appear, The simplest expedient will turn ’em; Talley saw what he meant; On the schemes he was bent, And fully resolv’d to adjourn ’em.