An Ode, on the Marquis of Granby's Losing His Hat, and Charging the French Lines Bare-headed

Where's now Othello's hair-breadth 'scapes, And all his fancied hardships of the field? Avaunt! ye mimic, bug-bear shapes, Shadows must to substance yield.

Granby hath more horrors seen, By greater perils been beset; Death and Granby thrice have met,

And not an hair between. The Frenchmen star'd, as well they might, Threw down their arms, and took to flight; His naked poll more terror bore, Than Caesar armour'd o'er and o'er.

" Parblieu!" says one, " But I'll begone, " This is the devil of a Don!

" 'Tis father Time! I know his pate; " And that's his scythe as sure as fate." Granby, who loves a little fun, And knew the cause which made them run, Thus the timorous foe bespoke, (By way of keeping up the joke:)

" But, gentlemen—hollo! I say— " Take nothing but yourselves away; " Ye carry now the jest too far; " Are these your tricks and spoils of war? " To leave a man in open air, " Waiting on you, sans hat or hair? " Why, what a plague! what breeding's that? " You, fellow there—return my hat. " 'Tis true I am not very old; " But, what of that?—I may take cold."

" Not so, my son" Fame, smiling, said, And clapt the laurel on his head: " Beyond the reach of human eye, " Thy warlike beaver waves on high; " Mars saw it fall, and bad it rise " An hat immortal to the skies." The hero to the goddess bow'd, And saw her vanish thro' a cloud; Then turn'd about his horse's head, And pick'd his way thro' heaps of dead: Within his tent retir'd to rest, And slept—with honour in his breast.