Our Coachman smokes a mighty pipe,
And through a hedge of beard looks grim,
Wears breeks with sable leathern stripe,
And square knee-patch, a wondrous trim!
And short blue coat with orange rim,
And spurs, as though to ride by turns,
While on the shining hat of him
In brass a regal eagle burns.
Not Piccadilly, not Cheapside,
(Thank Heaven!) is witness of his pride;
But, despot of our Diligence,
He drives from Prussia into France.
He wields his team with grunt-like words,
His whip is like a carter’s whip,
And slung with pied and tassel’d cords
Sleeps the shrill servant of his lip;
To savage roar and strange ya-hip
Well climbs each sturdy club-tail steed,
Down hill they mush, without a slip,
In rattling, jingling jolting speed.
And now through rugged streets we roll,
And now our Coachman’s pensive soul
Pour’d through the horn, apprises France
‘Tis we – the Prussian Diligence!
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