DIALOGUE AT HYDE-PARK CORNER

Let those who will, be proud and sneer And call you an unwelcome peer, But I am glad to see you here: The prince that fills the British throne, Unless successful, honours none; Poor Jack Burgoyne!—you're not alone.

Thy ships, De Grasse, have caused my grief— To rebel shores and their relief There never came a luckier chief: In fame's black page it shall be read, By Gallic arms my soldiers bled— The rebels thine in triumph led.

Our fortunes different forms assume, I called and called for elbow-room, Till Gates discharged me to my doom; But you, that conquered far and wide, In little York thought fit to hide, The subject ocean at your side.

And yet no force had gained that post— Not Washington, his country's boast, Nor Rochambeau, with all his host, Nor all the Gallic fleet's parade— Had Clinton hurried to my aid, And Sammy Graves been not afraid.

For head knocked off, or broken bones, Or mangled corpse, no price atones; Nor all that prattling rumour says, Nor all the piles that art can raise, The poet's or the parson's praise.

Though I am brave, as well as you, Yet still I think your notion true; Dear brother Jack, our toils are o'er— With foreign conquests plagued no more, We'll stay and guard our native shore.