from Canto XI

11

These freeborn sounds proceeded from four pads,
     In ambush laid, who had perceived him loiter
Behind his carriage; and, like handy lads,
    Had seized the lucky hour to reconnoitre,
In which the heedless gentleman who gads
     Upon the road, unless he prove a fighter,
May find himself within that Isle of riches
Exposed to lose his life as well as breeches.

12

Juan, who did not understand a word
     Of English, save their shibboleth, “God damn!”
And even that he had so rarely heard,
     He sometimes thought ‘twas only their “Salam,”
Or “God be with you!”—and ‘tis not absurd
     To think so; for half English as I am
(To my misfortune) never can I say
I heard them wish “God with you,” save that way;—

13

Juan yet quickly understood their gesture,
     And being somewhat choleric and sudden,
Drew forth a pocket-pistol from his vesture,
     And fired it into one assailant’s pudding—
Who fell, as rolls an ox o’er in his pasture,
    And roared out, as he writhed his native mud in,
Unto his nearest follower or henchman,
“Oh Jack! I’m floored by that ‘ere bloody Frenchman!”

14

On which Jack and his train set off at speed,
     And Juan’s suite, late scattered at a distance,
Came up, all marvelling at such a deed,
     And offering, as usual, late assistance.
Juan, who saw the Moon’s late minion bleed
     As if his veins would pour out his existence,
Stood calling out for bandages and lint,
And wished he had been less hasty with his flint.

15

“Perhaps,” thought he, “it is the country’s Wont
     To welcome foreigners in this way: now
I recollect some innkeepers who don’t
     Differ, except in robbing with a bow,
In lieu of a bare blade and brazen front.
     But what is to be done? I can’t allow
The fellow to lie groaning on the road:
So take him up; I’ll help you with the load.”

16

But ere they could perform this pious duty,
     The dying man cried, “Hold! I’ve got my gruel!
Oh! for a glass of max! We’ve miss’d our booty—
     Let me die where I am!” And as the fuel
Of life shrunk in his heart, and thick and sooty
     The drops fell from his death-wound, and he drew ill
His breath,—he from his swelling throat untied
A kerchief, crying “Give Sal that!”—and died.

17

The cravat stained with bloody drops fell down
     Before Don Juan’s feet: he could not tell
Exactly why it was before him thrown,
     Nor what the meaning of the man’s farewell.
Poor Tom was once a kiddy upon town,
     A thorough varmint, and a real swell,
Full flash, all fancy, until fairly diddled,
His pockets first, and then his body riddled.

18

Don Juan, having done the best he could
     In all the circumstances of the case,
As soon as “Crowner’s ‘quest” allowed, pursued
     His travels to the capital apace;—
Esteeming it a little hard he should
     In twelve hours’ time, and very little space,
Have been obliged to slay a freeborn native
In self-defence:—this made him meditative.

19

He from the world had cut off a great man,
     Who in his time had made heroic bustle.
Who in a row like Tom could lead the van,
    Booze in the ken, or at the spellken hustle?
Who queer a flat? Who (spite of Bow-street’s ban)
     On the high toby-spice so flash the muzzle?
Who on a lark, with black-eyed Sal (his blowing)
So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing?

20

But Tom’s no more—and so no more of Tom.
     Heroes must die; and by God’s blessing ‘tis
Not long before the most of them go home.—
    Hail! Thamis, hail! Upon thy verge it is
That Juan’s chariot, rolling like a drum
     In thunder, holds the way it can’t well miss,
Through Kennington and all the other “tons,”
Which make us wish ourselves in town at once;—