A Bishop and a bold dragoon, Both heroes in their way, Did thus, of late, one afternoon, Unto each other say:— "Dear Bishop," quoth the brave hussar, "As nobody denies That you a wise logician are, And I am—otherwise, 'Tis fit that in this question, we Stick each to his own art— That @3yours@1 should be the sophistry, And @3mine@1 the @3fighting@1 part. My creed, I need not tell you, is Like that of Wellington, To whom no harlot comes amiss, Save her of Babylon; And when we're at a loss for words, If laughing reasoners flout us, For lack of sense we'll draw our swords— The sole sharp thing about us."— "Dear bold dragoon," the bishop said, "'Tis true for war thou art meant; And reasoning—bless that dandy head! Is not in thy department. So leave the argument to me— And, when my holy labor Hath lit the fires of bigotry, Thou'lt poke them with thy sabre. From pulpit and from sentry-box, We'll make our joint attacks, I at the head of my @3Cassocks,@1 And you of your @3Cossacks.@1 So here's your health, my brave hussar, My exquisite old fighter— Success to bigotry and war, The musket and the mitre!" Thus prayed the minister of heaven— While York, just entering then, Snored out (as if some @3Clerk@1 had given His nose the cue) "Amen." |