There are at least a hundred sorts of courage ;
The sort that bares its breast to sword or rifle
Is not the sort of courage I possess ;



184 THE SETTING SUN.
I have a horror of corporeal pain ;
I do not like the feeling of cold iron,
Though only playing with a rotten tooth,
It sends a painful shiver through my frame.
England has been a foolish fighting country.
Quick at offence but tardy at forgiveness,
A little country with a mighty spirit.
Seizing the sword rather than yield a word,
And what has been the upshot of it all :
The loss of her best blood in civil wars,
And foolish quarrels with surrounding countries ;
And now she stands a hardened, shameless bankrupt.
Pressed with a debt that never can be paid
Until she grows potatoes made of gold ;
And if an army of her creditors
Sent in their Christmas bills on New Year's day
The bubble of her credit must be burst :
So much for all your military glory.
Bathed in a sea of proud but wasted blood.
We now at length begin to see true daylight.
And from past history learn the mighty lesson.
Which may be put into the smallest nutshell,
" Leave us alone, and we'll leave you alone."
Long will the name, " Crimea," turn us sick.
And, " Abyssinia," spoil our appetites.
