Yon’ trumpets charge of light brigade sounds out
O’er vast expanse of briny salted sea
A Bard’s descendant in reply doth shout
Tis I, a Musketeer on bended knee
To parry slant upon a noble breed
All Englishmen abed this day, shall cry
“Forsooth, we do in slumber dwell” (I cede)
Till thou hast raised once more our dander high
“En Garde” as Gallic cousins say; get set
Without our green and pleasant land we prance
Engaged with former friends therein; well met
A lesson took upon one’s chin perchance
Tho suited be midst milliners display
Mine hat yet feathered, brooks no ‘foul’ per se