Poem by William Harrison Ainsworth

* * *

MARLBROOK to the wars is coming! 
I fancy I hear his drumming; 
’Twill put an end to the mumming
	Of our priest-ridden Monarque!
For the moment lie enters Flanders, 
He’ll scare all our brave commanders, 
They’ll fly like so many ganders,
	Disturb’d by a mastiff’s bark.

He comes; and at SCHELLENBERG licks ’em, 
At BLENHEIM: next, how he kicks ’em, 
And on RAMILIES’ plain how he sticks ’em
	With bay’net to the ground! 
For, says he, “Those saucy Mounseers, 
I'll thoroughly — thoroughly trounce, sirs, 
As long as there’s an ounce, sirs,
	Of powder to be found.”

Now he’s gone home, so jolly, 
And we’re left melancholy, 
Lamenting of our folly
	That such a part we took. 
For bitterly has he drubb’d us, 
And cruelly has he snubb’d us,
And against the grain has rubb’d us,
	This terrible Turk, MARLBROOK.

We hope he will never come back, sirs,
Our generals to attack, sirs,
And thrash them all in a crack, sir,
	As he case done before. 
But in case QUEEN ANNE should send him, 
We trust she’ll kindly lend him 
Some Tories1 to attend him,
	Then he’ll return no more!

1. One Foot in the Stirrup, or Turpin's First Fling
2. The Game of High Toby
3. The Modern Greek
4. The Legend of Valdez
5. The Soul-Bell

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