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Robert Graves - The General ElliottRobert Graves - The General Elliott
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    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.
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