from Canto IX

1

Oh, Wellington! (or “Vilainton”—for Fame
     Sounds the heroic syllables both ways;
France could not even conquer your great name,
    But punned it down to this facetious phrase—
Beating or beaten she will laugh the same)—
     You have obtained great pensions and much praise;
Glory like yours should any dare gainsay,
Humanity would rise, and thunder “Nay!”

2

I don’t think that you used Kinnaird quite well
    In Marint’s affair—in fact ‘twas shabby,
And like some other things won’t do to tell
     Upon your tomb in Westminster’s old abbey.
Upon the rest ‘tis not worth while to dwell,
     Such tales being for the tea hours of some tabby;
But though your years as man tend fast to zero,
In fact your Grace is still but a young Hero.

3

Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so much,
     Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more:
You have repaired Legitimacy’s crutch,—
     A prop not quite so certain as before:
The Spanish, and the French, as well as Dutch,
     Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore;
And Waterloo has made the world your debtor—
(I wish your bards would sing it rather better).

4

You are the best of cut-throats:—do not start;
     The phrase is Shakspeare’s, and not misapplied:—
War’s a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art,
    Unless her cause by Right be sanctified.
If you have acted once a generous part,
     The World, not the World’s masters, will decide,
And I shall be delighted to learn who,
Save you and yours, have gained by Waterloo?

5

I am no flatterer—you’ve supped full of flattery:
     They say you like it too—’tis no great wonder:
He whose whole life has been assault and battery,
     At last may get a little tired of thunder;
And swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he
     May like being praised for every lucky blunder;
Called “Saviour of the Nations”—not yet saved,
And Europe’s Liberator—still enslaved.

6

I’ve done. Now go and dine from off the plate
    Presented by the Prince of the Brazils,
And send the sentinel before your gate
     A slice or two from your luxurious meals:
He fought, but has not fed so well of late.
     Some hunger too they say the people feels:—
There is no doubt that you deserve your ration,
But pray give back a little to the nation.

7

I don’t mean to reflect—a man so great as
     You, my Lord Duke! is far above reflection.
The high Roman fashion too of Cincinnatus,
     With modern history has but small connection:
Though as an Irishman you love potatoes,
     You need not take them under your direction;
And half a million for your Sabine farm
Is rather dear!—I’m sure I mean no harm.

8

Great men have always scorned great recompenses:
    Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died,
Not leaving even his funeral expenses:
     George Washington had thanks and nought beside,
Except the all-cloudless Glory (which few men’s is)
     To free his country: Pitt too had his pride,
And, as a high-soul’d Minister of State, is
Renowned for ruining Great Britain gratis.

9

Never had mortal Man such opportunity,
     Except Napoleon, or abused it more:
You might have freed fall’n Europe from the Unity
     Of Tyrants, and been blest from shore to shore:
And now—What is your fame? Shall the Muse tune it ye?
     Now—that the rabble’s first vain shouts are o’er?
Go, hear it in your famished Country’s cries!
Behold the World! and curse your victories!

10

As these new Cantos touch on warlike feats,
    To you the unflattering Muse deigns to inscribe
Truths that you will not read in the Gazettes,
    But which, ‘tis time to teach the hireling tribe
Who fatten on their Country’s gore and debts,
     Must be recited, and—without a bribe.
You did great things; but not being great in mind,
Have left undone the greatest—and mankind.