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Poem	The English and the French were met Upon the field of future battle; The foes were formidably set And waiting for the guns to rattle; When from the serried ranks of France The English saw with woeful presage Under a flaming flag advance A trumpeter who bore a message. 'Twas from their Marshal, quite polite, Yet made the English leader shiver. "We're perched," said he, "upon the height, While you're exposed beside the river. We have the vantage, you'll agree, And your look-out is melancholy; But being famed for courtesy We'll let you fire the starting volley." The English General was moved, In fact his eyes were almost tearful; Then he too his politeness proved By writing back: "We are not fearful. Our England is too proud to take The privilege you thrust upon her; So let your guns in thunder break: To you, M'sieu, shall be the houour." Again a note the Marshall sent By envoy for his battle station: "Your spirit wins my compliment, Your courage my appreciation. Yet you are weak and we are strong, And though your faith is most inspiring, Don't let us linger all day long - Mon General, begin the firing." "How chivalrous the soul of France." The English General reflected. "I hate to take this happy chance, But I suppose it's what's expected. Politeness is a platitude In this fair land of gallant foemen." So with a heart of gratitude He primed his guns and cried: "Let's go men!" The General was puzzled when No answer came, said he: "What is it? Why don't they give us hell?" And then The herald paid another visit. The Marshall wrote: "to your salute Please pardon us for not replying; To shatter you we cannot shoot . . . My men are dead and I am dying."
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