Pale sons of famine, at perdition's gate, North's friends down swarming (so our monarch wills), Hungry as death, from Caledonian hills; Whose endless numbers if you bid me tell, I'll count the atoms of this globe as well,-- 120 Knights, captains, 'squires--a wonder-working band, Held at small wages 'till they gain the land, Flocked pensive round--black spleen assailed their hearts, (The sport of plough-boys, with their arms and arts) And made them doubt (howe'er for vengeance hot) 125 Whether they were invincible or not. Now Gage upstarting from his cushioned seat Swore thrice, and cried--"'Tis nonsense to be beat! Thus to be drubbed! pray, warriors, let me know Which be in fault, myself, the fates, or you-- 130 Henceforth let Britain deem her men mere toys-- Gods! to be frightened thus by country boys; Why, if your men had had a mind to sup, They might have eat that scare-crow[90] army up-- Three thousand to twelve hundred thus to yield, 135 And twice five hundred stretched upon the field!--[91] O shame to Britain, and the British name, Shame damps my heart, and I must die with shame-- Thus to be worsted, thus disgraced and beat!-- You have the knack, Lord Piercy,[92] to retreat, 140 The death you escaped my warmest blood congeals, Heaven grant me, too, so swift a pair of heels--[93] In Chevy-Chace, as, doubtless, you have read, Lord Piercy would have sooner died than fled-- Behold the virtues of your house decay-- 145 Ah! how unlike the Piercy of that day!" Thus spoke the great man in disdainful tone To the gay peer--not meant for him alone-- But ere the tumults of his bosom rise Thus from his bench the intrepid peer replies: 150 "When once the soul has reached the Stygian shore, My prayer book says, it shall return no more-- When once old Charon hoists his tar-blacked sail, And his boat swims before the infernal gale, Farewell to all that pleased the man above, 155 Farewell to feats of arms, and joys of love! Farewell the trade that father Cain began, Farewell to wine, that cheers the heart of man; All, all farewell!--the pensive shade must go Where cold Medusa turns to stone below, 160 Where Belus' maids eternal labours ply To drench the cask that stays forever dry, And Sysiphus, with many a weary groan, Heaves up the mount the still recoiling stone! "Since, then, this truth no mortal dares deny, 165 That heroes, kings--and lords, themselves, must die, And yield to him who dreads no hostile sword, But treats alike the peasant and the lord; Since even great George must in his turn give place And leave his crown, his Scotchmen, and his lace,-- 170 How blest is he, how prudent is the man