DIALOGUE AT HYDE-PARK CORNER

Let those who will, be proud and sneer

And call you an unwelcome peer,

But I am glad to see you here:

The prince that fills the British throne,

Unless successful, honours none;

Poor Jack Burgoyne!— you're not alone.

Thy ships, De Grasse, have caused my grief —

To rebel shores and their relief

There never came a luckier chief:

In fame's black page it shall be read,

By Gallic arms my soldiers bled —

The rebels thine in triumph led.

Our fortunes different forms assume,

I called and called for elbow-room,

Till Gates discharged me to my doom;

But you, that conquered far and wide,

In little York thought fit to hide,

The subject ocean at your side.

And yet no force had gained that post —

Not Washington, his country's boast,

Nor Rochambeau, with all his host,

Nor all the Gallic fleet's parade —

Had Clinton hurried to my aid,

And Sammy Graves been not afraid.

For head knocked off, or broken bones,

Or mangled corpse, no price atones;

Nor all that prattling rumour says,

Nor all the piles that art can raise,

The poet's or the parson's praise.

Though I am brave, as well as you,

Yet still I think your notion true;

Dear brother Jack, our toils are o'er —

With foreign conquests plagued no more,

We'll stay and guard our native shore.