XIV.
Fired with the warlike spirit of the hour,
And jealous for his native borough's glory,
He penned a letter to the men in power
To beg them, whether they were Whig or Tory,
To send him down from Woolwich or the Tower,
Whereby his mayoralty might live in story,
One of the cannon taken at Sebastopol,
Whose capture cost the Allies so long and vast a pull.

XV.
Having " a friend at court" (for, I should state,
The manor's lord is styled the Duke of Cornwall),
He gained his object without much debate
(A flat refusal he would scarce have borne well!);
And, in due course, his worship to elate
With such a prize, as should exalt his horn well,
By way of something like " a real astounder,"
They sent him down a six-and-thirty pounder!

XVI.
A huge great gun it was, some nine feet long,
And firmly mounted on a handsome carriage,
Inscribed with iron letters, stout and strong,
Stating that it was captured from his Czarage,
Before Sebastopol, now famed in song,
And to our loyal borough given in marriage,
To have and hold, that is, in bonds cannon-ical,
Till one or both were blotted from Time's chronicle.

XVII.
Well, down it came by train, and down to meet it,
In formal state, went Mayor and Corporation;
While at their heels, in headlong haste to greet it,
Rushed the whole borough's eager population;
And crowding round, as if they meant to eat it,
They hugged and kissed it (!!) when it reached the station;
Then, giving three loud cheers for Prince and Crown,
They " buckled to," and dragged it up to town.

XVIII.
A general holiday proclaimed its coming,
And joyous peals rang from the old church-steeple,
So great a noise of fifing and of drumming
Sure ne'er was heard among that sober people.
The shouts with which they rent the air were stunning
(Police at such a time the peace could keep ill),
In short, both old and young with joy were frantic;
You might have heard them half across the Atlantic.

XIX.
Arrived at length in front of the Guildhall,
His worship slowly halted the procession;
Then, turning round, addressed them one and all
In glowing periods, on their proud possession
Of such a trophy, to record the fall
Of Russia's mightiest stronghold of oppression;
And hoped it long might stand to tell the story
Of England's might, and France's sister-glory.

XX.
Loud cheering followed on the Mayor's address,
And never in this world did man feel prouder,
To think his townsmen valued his success
About the gun; but still the cheers rang louder,
When, raising his spare form above the press,
He cried, if any one would fetch some powder,
He'd pay the shot, no matter at how high rate,
If any venturous spirit liked to fire it.

XXI.
A fitting climax to the day's festivity,
"fwas voted by the general acclamation;
But, ready as his worship was to give it, he
Observed among the crowd some hesitation.
In fact, this thought had damped their first activity:—
That though, belonging to a sporting nation,
Fearing nor guns nor pistols; yet, confound her!
They rather funked a six-and-thirty pounder.

XXII.
At length, an aged pensioner was found
Who, in his younger days, had tackled Boney,
Who volunteered to let them hear her sound
Her iron war-notes, " con espressione!"
So, ramming home of powder many a pound,
He seized a red-hot poker from some crony,
And, while the crowd stood mute with fear and wonder,
Bang! went the monster, with a noise like thunder.

XXIII.
Then rose from earth to sky one hideous yell,
"Then shrieked the timid, and stood still the brave!"
And chimney-pots came clattering down pell-mell,
Enough to wake the dead within each grave.
Then female lips were heard, in accents fell,
Screaming, as the sound reached them wave on wave,
"Ah, drat our mazed ould Mayor! Just hark, them winders!
He've smashed them all to fifty thousand flinders!"

XXIV.
And true enough it was! A flash! a crash!
A universal earthquake shook the town!
And casements right and left, with headlong dash,
Upon the pavement fast came rattling down.
Down from the walls came pictures with a clash,
And chimney-ornaments, worth many a crown;
While, as it smashed their crockery to bits,
It frightened seven old women into fits.

XXV.
One scene of desolation met the sight
When the smoke lifted, and the roar had died;
Whole shop-fronts, blown to atoms by the might
Of that explosion, yawned on every side.
Their main street's sorely ruinated plight
The burgesses with rueful visage eyed!
Sebastopol itself, though twelve months battered,
Could scarce have been more miserably shattered.

XXVI.
Conceive our martial magistrate's dismay,
To scan the ruin which his gun had wrought!
The shattered fragments all around that lay,
As if some mighty battle had been fought!
The broken slates and glass that strewed the way:
When down in triumph first that gun he brought,
He little dreamt, in summing up his gains,
He'd have to pay the glazier—for his panes.

XXVII.
His costs for damages were something frightful;
Because, for every cracked old glass in town,
The owners, deeming such a chance delightful,
Upon his worship for repairs came down.
And many a pound he paid more than was rightful,
To satisfy their claims, or clamours drown;
Protesting, as he gazed upon each bill awry,
He never more would meddle with artillery!

XXVIII.
Five hundred squares! No wonder that the Guild
Of Glaziers voted him a right good fellow;
And prayed that, when the office next he filled,
He'd make that monster gun once more to bellow.
Our pensioner, in long campaigning skilled,
Declared, with drink when waxing rather mellow,
That our great Duke, of whom he then most prattles,
Ne'er broke so many squares in all his battles!