[LinuxSSN-devel] hold, so general

[Sandblom <pu...@as...>]

Twas thine. If the king would play, Perchance he'd find his revenge
to-day. Gambling, I own, is a fault, a sin; I always repent--unless I
win." _Le jeu est fait._--"Well thrown! eleven! My purse is
gone.--Double-six, by heaven!" At this unlucky point in the game A
herald was ushered in. He came With a flag of truce, commissioned to say
The garrison now were willing to lay The keys of the castle at his feet,
If he'd let them go and let them eat: They'd done their best; could do
no more Than humbly wait the fortune of war And Richard's word. It came
in tones That grated harshly:--"D--n the bones And double-six! Marcadee,
you've won.-- Take back my word to each mother's son, And tell them
Richard swore it: Be the smoke of their den their funeral pall! By the
Holy Tomb, I'll hang them all! They've hung out so well behind their
wall, They'll hang out well before it." Then Richard laughed in his
hearty way, Enjoying his joke, as a monarch may; He laughed till he
ached for want of breath: If it lacked in life, it was full of death:
Like many, believing the next best thing To a joke with a point is a
joke with a sting. Loud he laughed; but he laughed not long Ere he
leaped to the back of his charger strong, And bounded forward, axe on
high, Circling the tents with his battle-cry,-- "Away! away! we shall
win the day: In the front of the fight you'll find me: The first to get
in my spurs shall win,-- My boots to the wight behind me!" * * * They
have reached the moat; The draw is up, but a wooden float Is thrust
across, and onward they run; The bank is gained and the barbican won;
The outer gate goes down with a crash; Through the portcullis they madly
dash, And with shouts of triumph they now assail The innermost gate. The
crushing hail Of rocks and beams goes through the mass, Like the
summer-hail on the summer-grass;-- They falter, they waver. A stalwart