Classic Poem

For thirty years, in Freedom's struggle glorious,
I've taken part in many a hope forlorn.
I knew that I could never be victorious,
But wounded must return, and battle-worn.

I waked by day and night—there was no sleeping
For me, as for the others in the tent—
(Their snores, good lads, did something toward keeping
Slumber away, maybe, when I was spent).

I have known terror in those watches weary—
(For only fools have never been afraid)—
Then I would whistle mocking tunes and cheery,
Until the fear that haunted me was laid.

Yes, I have stood on guard, alert and steady,
And, if a doubtful character was seen,
Have aimed, and the hot bullet that was ready
Has found in his vile paunch a billet mean.

Yet all the same, one cannot but confess it,
Such scurvy fellows often understood
The art of shooting—vain 'twere to suppress it—
My wounds are gaping—ebbing is my blood.

Wide gape the wounds—the vacant post's bespoken!
One falls, another fills his place and part.
But I have fallen unvanquished—sword unbroken—
The only thing that's broken is my heart.