TWAS at the royal feast for Kars
By faithful Russia won;
Seated, if not aside of Mars,
Aside of Marsis son,
Who bears a plume of purest white,
Which plume he proudly shows
To guide old chiefs agape for fight,
But fitter for repose,
Twas at this royal feast Panmure
His portly paunch displaid..
“But art thou very, very sure?”
The baldpate patron said.
“Ay, sixteen thousand,” quoth Milord,
“Surrendered to our Tzar,
Enforced by Famine: now the sword
Methinks is sick of war.”
“Then,” quoth the Mars-born, “we will ask
Our master in the north
What (may it please him!) such a task
Perform’d for him is worth.”
Assure him it is our intent
For ever to go on so:
Odessa shows him how we meant
To please him and Woronzow.
Napier, than whom no seaman braver
Hath scourged the Baltic coast,
Threatens his city; we will save her:
Gunboats! yes; four at most.
Say we have daughters growing up
Who like such pretty things
As jewels, and should never stoop
Below the rank of kings.
Panmure, be ready with thy tongue,
Be ready with thy pen,
Else we may see the world go wrong
And Kars the Turk’s agen.
Tell Palmerston he may, if wise,
Our firm support rely on.
Say he may praise above the skies
But must pull down that Guyon.