Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.

By WilliamLindsey

1336 En Garde, Messieurs

EN GARDE, Messieurs, too long have I endured,

Too long with patience borne the world’s rebuff;

Now he who shoulders me shall find me rough;

The weakness of an easy soul is cured.

I ’ve shouted, leathern-lunged, when fame or gold

Were won by others, turned to aid my friend;—

Dull-pated ever,—but such follies end;

Only a fool’s content, and in the cold.

My doublet is in tatters, and my purse

Waves in the wind, light as my lady’s fan;

Only my sword is bright; with it I plan

To win success, or put my sword to nurse.

I wait no longer for the primal blow;

Henceforth my stroke is first, I give offense;

I claim no more an over-dainty sense,

I brook no blocking where I plan to go.

En garde, Messieurs! and if my hand is hard,

Remember I ’ve been buffeted at will;

I am a whit impatient, and ’t is ill

To cross a hungry dog, Messieurs, en garde.