Plain, homely, in a rusty gown—
Some village priest, no more—
And yet a lion, and at bay,
Had daunted them no more.
As, all unarmed, the stern man stood,
Backward the foremost bore.
“Begone!” he cried, “you swaggering rogues,
You fools and knaves by fits;
Who let bad wine creep up and steal
Your poor besotted wits;
E’en now for you the hangman works,
And chain to collar knits!
“Back to your garrets and your dens,
Your greasy dice and cards;
Back, lazy prentices and thieves,
Back to your Bridewell wards!
Go to the hospitals, and pine
With Blood Bowl Alley’s hordes.
“For ye the madhouse cries and gapes,
For ye the gibbet creaks;
Go, join the highwayman, and kill
The miser when he squeaks;
Or cower around the glass-house when
The pent-house shelter leaks.
“You brood of apes, and dogs, and swine,
Back to your kennels—go—”
(Each bitter word that grim man spoke
Fell like a bruising blow)
“—Spawn of the serpent, to your holes,
He calls you from below!”
Those wine-flushed faces pale to see
The sternness of that face;
The banners droop, the tankards sink,
The cowering links give place;
The stuttering mouths, the vacant eyes
Look sober for a space.
