After The Battle

MY father, hero of benignant mien,

On horseback visited the gory scene,

After the battle as the evening fell,

And took with him a trooper loved right well,

Because of bravery and presence bold.

The field was covered with the dead, all cold,

And shades of night were deepening : came a sound,

Feeble and hoarse, from something on the ground ;

It was a Spaniard of the vanquished force,

Who dragged himself with pain beside their course.

Wounded and bleeding, livid and half dead,

"Give me to drink — in pity, drink!" he said.

My father, touched, stretched to his follower now

A flask of rum that from his saddle-bow

Hung down : "The poor soul — give him drink," said he

But while the trooper prompt, obediently

Stooped towards the other, he of Moorish race

Pointed a pistol at my father's face,

And with a savage oath the trigger drew :

The hat flew off, a bullet passing through.

As swerved his charger in a backward stride,

"Give him to drink the same," my father cried.