IN all the towns and cities fair On Merry England's broad expanse,No swordsman ever could compare With THOMAS WINTERBOTTOM HANCE.
The dauntless lad could fairly hew A silken handkerchief in twain,Divide a leg of mutton too And this without unwholesome strain.
On whole halfsheep,with cunning trick,His sabre sometimes he'd employ No bar of lead,however thick,Had terrors for the stalwart boy.
At Dover daily he'd prepare To hew and slash,behind,before Which aggravated MONSIEUR PIERRE,Who watched him from the Calais shore.
It caused good PIERRE to swear and dance,The sight annoyed and vexed him so;He was the bravest man in France
He said so,and he ought to know.
"Regardez donc,ce cochon gros
Ce polisson!Oh,sacre bleu!
Son sabre,son plomb,et ses gigots Comme cela m'ennuye,enfin,mon Dieu!
"Il sait que les foulards de soie Give no retaliating whack Les gigots morts n'ont pas de quoi
Le plomb don't ever hit you back."
But every day the headstrong lad Cut lead and mutton more and more;And every day poor PIERRE,half mad,Shrieked loud defiance from his shore.
HANCE had a mother,poor and old,A simple,harmless village dame,Who crowed and clapped as people told Of WINTERBOTTOM'S rising fame.
She said,"I'll be upon the spot To see my TOMMY'S sabreplay;"
And so she left her leafy cot,And walked to Dover in a day.
PIERRE had a doating mother,who Had heard of his defiant rage;HIS Ma was nearly ninetytwo,And rather dressy for her age.
At HANCE'S doings every morn,With sheer delight HIS mother cried;And MONSIEUR PIERRE'S contemptuous scorn Filled HIS mamma with proper pride.