Explore "The General Elliott" by Robert Graves on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
He fell in victory's fierce pursuit, / Holed through and through with shot, / A sabre sweep had hacked him deep / 'Twixt neck and shoulder-knot.
The potman cannot well recall, / The ostler never knew, / Whether his day was Malplaquet, / The Boyne, or Waterloo.
But there he hangs for tavern sign, / With foolish bold regard / For cock and hen and loitering men / And wagons down the yard.
Raised high above the hayseed world / He smokes his painted pipe, / And now surveys the orchard ways, / The damsons clustering ripe.
He sees the churchyard slabs beyond, / Where country neighbours lie, / Their brief renown set lowly down; / _His_ name assaults the sky.
He grips the tankard of brown ale / That spills a generous foam: / Oft-times he drinks, they say, and winks / At drunk men lurching home.
No upstart hero may usurp / That honoured swinging seat; / His seasons pass with pipe and glass / Until the tale's complete.
And paint shall keep his buttons bright / Though all the world's forgot / Whether he died for England's pride / By battle, or by pot.