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A poem by Thomas Moore

[1]


Missing or lost, last Sunday night,
A Waterloo coin whereon was traced
The inscription, "Courage!" in letters bright,
Tho' a little by rust of years defaced.

The metal thereof is rough and hard,
And ('tis thought of late) mixt up with brass;
But it bears the stamp of Fame's award,
And thro' all Posterity's hands will pass.

How it was lost God only knows,
But certain City thieves, they say,
Broke in on the owner's evening doze,
And filched this "gift of gods" away!

One ne'er could, of course, the Cits suspect,
If we hadn't that evening chanced to see,
At the robbed man's door a Mare elect
With an ass to keep her company.

Whosoe'er of this lost treasure knows,
Is begged to state all facts about it,
As the owner can't well face his foes,
Nor even his friends just now without it.

And if Sir Clod will bring it back,
Like a trusty Baronet, wise and able,
He shall have a ride on the whitest hack[2]
That's left in old King George's stable.

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