The General Elliott

He fell in victory's fierce pursuit,         Holed through and through with shot,     A sabre sweep had hacked him deep         Twixt neck and shoulderknot....     The potman cannot well recall,         The ostler never knew,     Whether his day was Malplaquet,         The Boyne or Waterloo.     But there he hangs for tavern sign,         With foolish bold regard     For cock and hen and loitering men         And wagons down the yard.     Raised high above the hayseed world         He smokes his painted pipe,     And now surveys the orchard ways,         The damsons clustering ripe.     He sees the churchyard slabs beyond,         Where country neighbours lie,     Their brief renown set lowly down;         His name assaults the sky.     He grips the tankard of brown ale         That spills a generous foam:     Oft-times he drinks, they say, and winks         At drunk men lurching home.     No upstart hero may usurp             That honoured swinging seat;     His seasons pass with pipe and glass             Until the tale's complete.     And paint shall keep his buttons bright             Though all the world's forgot     Whether he died for England's pride             By battle, or by pot.