The Foreigner

Have at you, you Devils!

My back's to this tree,

For you're nothing so nice

That the hind-side of me

Would escape your assault.

Come on now, all three!

Here's a dandified gentleman,

Rapier at point,

And a wrist which whirls round

Like a circular joint.

A spatter of blood, man!

That's just to anoint

And make supple your limbs.

‘ Tis a pity the silk

Of your waistcoat is stained.

Why! Your heart's full of milk,

And so full, it spills over!

I'm not of your ilk.

You said so, and laughed

At my old-fashioned hose,

At the cut of my hair,

At the length of my nose.

To carve it to pattern

I think you propose.

Your pardon, young Sir,

But my nose and my sword

Are proving themselves

In quite perfect accord.

I grieve to have spotted

Your shirt. On my word!

And hullo! You Bully!

That blade's not a stick

To slash right and left,

And my skull is too thick

To be cleft with such cuffs

Of a sword. Now a lick

Down the side of your face.

What a pretty, red line!

Tell the taverns that scar

Was an honour. Do n't whine

That a stranger has marked you.