47
When Mistress Sun peeps slily through the thicket,
And views in awe the tips of long spikes clustered,
And formidable muskets of the pickets.
Views, too, impressed, those uniforms so mottled,
Not one with less than four bright colours spottled,
So that this military simian crop is
To look at much like an immense parterre
Of mallows, tulips, pæonies, and poppies
Or our own Civic Council and Lord Mayor.
All the world’s armies here are represented,
Look where you will ’tis all gold fringe and lacings,
A choice of all the shakos e’er invented,
With epaulettes, plumes, cockades, corded facings,
And grenadiers’ red caps with spiky crown,
So that they look much like a lobster salad,
And ’neath whose brim of gold ape warriors frown,
Haughty as those of troubadour and ballad.
As for the cavalry, its gleam and glint
Fatigues the eye like sparkles struck from flint.
Here gold cuirasses in the sun are glancing,
Here quaintly crested casque and helmet flash,
Where elf-long wisps of horse-hair mane are dancing,
Here blinks a cutlass drawn from sheath and sash:
The riders’ boots are drawn up tight and bound
Under the armpits with a pair of braces,
Else had their ample veal-skins beat the ground,
Where, as it is, each spur a furrow traces:
Half down the calf within, the small foot dips,
Although the tops are braced up to the hips:
And in default of horseflesh these dragoons
Are mounted on high-spirited baboons.
Before his guards, a bow stupendous wielding,
