No Englishman would be seen dead under one,
preferring to run for cover, soaked to the skin,
peruke bedraggled, than carry this effeminate device,
the ‘Frenchies’ unfurled without a blush.
Only Mr Jonas Hanway, by no means wet,
having seen off Persian pirates on his travels
and an outspoken critic of tea drinking and employment
of climbing boys, had the backbone to own one.
An arresting accessory with an ebony handle
carved with flowers and fruit, its opened canopy
offering a pale, green silk display, while a lining
of yellow satin blazed above him like a portable sun,
as he strolled through torrents of ridicule, resolute
in letting no one rain on his parade.
