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.