~62~~
May misery never press thee hard,
Ne'er may disease thy steps attend:
Listen, ye gents; rude Boreas hold your tongue!
The pomp advances, and my lyre is strung.
First comes Marshal Thackeray,
Dress'd out in crack array;
Ar'nt he a whacker, eh?
His way he picks,
Follow'd by six,
Like a hen by her chicks:
Enough! he's gone.
As this martial Marshall
Is to music partial,
The bandsmen march all
His heels upon.
He who hits the balls such thumps,
King of cricket-bats and stumps,--
Barnard comes;
Sound the drums--
Silence! he's past.
Eight fair pages,
Of different ages,
Follow fast.
Next comes the Serjeant-Major,
Who, like an old stager,
Without need of bridle
Walks steadily; the same
Dolphin Major by name,
Major Dolphin by title.
Next struts Serjeant Brown,
Very gay you must own;
With gallant Mr. Hughes,
In well-polish'd shoes;
Then Sampson, who tramps on,
Strong as his namesake.
Then comes Webb, who don't dread
To die for his fame's sake.
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