'Mongst them were several Englishmen of pith, Sixteen call'd Thomson, and nineteen named Smith.
Jack Thomson and Bill Thomson; all the rest Had been call'd 'Jemmy,' after the great bard;
I don't know whether they had arms or crest, But such a godfather 's as good a card.
Three of the Smiths were Peters; but the best Amongst them all, hard blows to inflict or ward, Was he, since so renown'd 'in country quarters At Halifax;' but now he served the Tartars.
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 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 ****** 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, 't is 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 't is 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.
A sad miscalculation about distance Made all their naval matters incorrect;
Three fireships lost their amiable existence Before they reach'd a spot to take effect:
The match was lit too soon, and no assistance Could remedy this lubberly defect;
They blew up in the middle of the river, While, though 't was dawn, the Turks slept fast as ever.
At seven they rose, however, and survey'd The Russ flotilla getting under way;
'T was nine, when still advancing undismay'd, Within a cable's length their vessels lay Off Ismail, and commenced a cannonade, Which was return'd with interest, I may say, And by a fire of musketry and grape, And shells and shot of every size and shape.
For six hours bore they without intermission The Turkish fire, and aided by their own Land batteries, work'd their guns with great precision:
At length they found mere cannonade alone By no means would produce the town's submission, And made a signal to retreat at one.
One bark blew up, a second near the works Running aground, was taken by the Turks.
The Moslem, too, had lost both ships and men;
But when they saw the enemy retire, Their Delhis mann'd some boats, and sail'd again, And gall'd the Russians with a heavy fire, And tried to make a landing on the main;
But here the effect fell short of their desire:
Count Damas drove them back into the water Pell-mell, and with a whole gazette of slaughter.
'If' (says the historian here) 'I could report All that the Russians did upon this day, I think that several volumes would fall short, And I should still have many things to say;'
And so he says no more- but pays his court To some distinguish'd strangers in that fray;
The Prince de Ligne, and Langeron, and Damas, Names great as any that the roll of Fame has.
This being the case, may show us what Fame is:
For out of these three 'preux Chevaliers,' how Many of common readers give a guess That such existed? (and they may live now For aught we know.) Renown 's all hit or miss;
There 's fortune even in fame, we must allow.
'T is true the Memoirs of the Prince de Ligne Have half withdrawn from him oblivion's screen.
But here are men who fought in gallant actions As gallantly as ever heroes fought, But buried in the heap of such transactions Their names are rarely found, nor often sought.
Thus even good fame may suffer sad contractions, And is extinguish'd sooner than she ought:
Of all our modern battles, I will bet You can't repeat nine names from each Gazette.
In short, this last attack, though rich in glory, Show'd that somewhere, somehow, there was a fault, And Admiral Ribas (known in Russian story)
Most strongly recommended an assault;
In which he was opposed by young and hoary, Which made a long debate; but I must halt, For if I wrote down every warrior's speech, I doubt few readers e'er would mount the breach.
