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(THE ARMY MUSKET—1700–1815)
IN the days of lace-ruffles, perukes and brocade | |
| Brown Bess was a partner whom none could despise— | |
| An out-spoken, flinty-lipped, brazen-faced jade, | |
| With a habit of looking men straight in the eyes— | |
| At Blenheim and Ramillies fops would confess | 5 |
| They were pierced to the heart by the charms of Brown Bess. | |
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| Though her sight was not long and her weight was not small | |
| Yet her actions were winning, her language was clear; | |
| And everyone bowed as she opened the ball | |
| On the arm of some high-gaitered, grim grenadier. | 10 |
| Half Europe admitted the striking success | |
| Of the dances and routs that were given by Brown Bess. | |
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| When ruffles were turned into stiff leather stocks | |
| And people wore pigtails instead of perukes | |
| Brown Bess never altered her iron-grey locks, | 15 |
| She knew she was valued for more than her looks. | |
| “Oh, powder and patches was always my dress, | |
| And I think I am killing enough,” said Brown Bess. | |
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| So she followed her red-coats, whatever they did, | |
| From the heights of Quebec to the plains of Assaye, | 20 |
| From Gibraltar to Acre, Cape Town and Madrid, | |
| And nothing about her was changed on the way; | |
| (But most of the Empire which now we possess | |
| Was won through those years by old-fashioned Brown Bess.) | |
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| In stubborn retreat or in stately advance, | 25 |
| From the Portugal coast to the cork-woods of Spain | |
| She had puzzled some excellent Marshals of France | |
| Till none of them wanted to meet her again: | |
| But later, near Brussels, Napoleon—no less— | |
| Arranged for a Waterloo ball with Brown Bess. | 30 |
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| She had danced till the dawn of that terrible day— | |
| She danced on till dusk of more terrible night, | |
| And before her linked squares his battalions gave way | |
| And her long fierce quadrilles put his lancers to flight: | |
| And when his gilt carriage drove off in the press, | 35 |
| “I have danced my last dance for the world!” said Brown Bess. | |
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| If you go to Museums—there’s one in Whitehall— | |
| Where old weapons are shown with their names writ beneath, | |
| You will find her, upstanding, her back to the wall, | |
| As stiff as a ramrod, the flint in her teeth. | 40 |
| And if ever we English had reason to bless | |
| Any arm save our mothers’, that arm is Brown Bess! | |
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