Attention, Miles! You have observed, no doubt,
That General Sam Young is “fired out”;
That is to say, retired for age. Just so;
You were yourself retired not long ago—
Just “cast as rubbish to the void” (for such
Is Law’s demand)—alighting where ’tis much
Too cold for comfort. There you may be found
Piled up on Fame’s eternal dumping-ground.
If you’ve a memory you still can tell
Yourself how singularly hard you fell,
And no one “kissed the place to make it well.”
I know not ( Mr. Root knows little else)
Why Sam should fare so better far than Nelse,
But so he did, for scarcely did he light
Ere Mr. Secretary gripped him tight,
Stood him erect, removed his coat and shirt,
And, finding on his person where it hurt,
Performed, in pity for his hapless plight,
The appropriate consolatory rite.
Miles, you are lucky! True, you’re badly bruised,
The wound administered, the balm refused;
But if too rashly you had dared to strip
Your aching back for the official lip,
Consider the temptation (none can fight it
Who has Administration teeth) to bite it!