Chapter 12

_The British Army once more repuls'd, HOWE again rallies his flying troops._

HOWE.

But that so many mouths can witness it, I would deny myself an _Englishman_, And swear this day, that with such cowardice, No kindred, or alliance, has my birth. O base degen'rate souls, whose ancestors, At Cressy, Poitiers, and at Agincourt, With tenfold numbers, combated, and pluck'd The budding laurels, from the brows of France. Back to the charge, once more, and rather die, Burn'd up, and wither'd on this bloody hill, Than live the blemish of your Country's fame, With everlasting infamy, oppress'd. Their ammunition, as you hear, is spent, So that unless their looks, and visages, Like fierce-ey'd Basilisks, can strike you dead; Return, and rescue yet, sweet Countrymen, Some share of honour, on this hapless day. Let some brave officers stand on the rear, And with the small sword, and sharp bayonet, Drive on each coward that attempts to lag, That thus, sure death may find the villain out, With more dread certainty, than him who moves, Full in the van, to meet the wrathful foe.