| |
| ’T WAS the day beside the Pyramids, | |
| It seems but an hour ago, | |
| That Kleber’s Foot stood firm in squares, | |
| Returning blow for blow. | |
| The Mamelukes were tossing | 5 |
| Their standards to the sky, | |
| When I heard a child’s voice say, “My men, | |
| Teach me the way to die!” | |
| |
| ’T was a little drummer, with his side | |
| Torn terribly with shot; | 10 |
| But still he feebly beat his drum, | |
| As though the wound were not. | |
| And when the Mameluke’s wild horse | |
| Burst with a scream and cry, | |
| He said, “O men of the Forty-third, | 15 |
| Teach me the way to die! | |
| |
| “My mother has got other sons, | |
| With stouter hearts than mine, | |
| But none more ready blood for France | |
| To pour out free as wine. | 20 |
| Yet still life’s sweet,” the brave lad moan’d, | |
| “Fair are this earth and sky; | |
| Then, comrades of the Forty-third, | |
| Teach me the way to die!” | |
| |
| I saw Salenche, of the granite heart, | 25 |
| Wiping his burning eyes— | |
| It was by far more pitiful | |
| Than mere loud sobs and cries. | |
| One bit his cartridge till his lip | |
| Grew black as winter sky, | 30 |
| But still the boy moan’d, “Forty-third, | |
| Teach me the way to die!” | |
| |
| O never saw I sight like that! | |
| The sergeant flung down flag, | |
| Even the fifer bound his brow | 35 |
| With a wet and bloody rag, | |
| Then look’d at locks and fix’d their steel, | |
| But never made reply, | |
| Until he sobb’d out once again, | |
| “Teach me the way to die!” | 40 |
| |
| Then, with a shout that flew to God, | |
| They strode into the fray; | |
| I saw their red plumes join and wave, | |
| But slowly melt away. | |
| The last who went—a wounded man— | 45 |
| Bade the poor boy goodbye, | |
| And said, “We men of the Forty-third | |
| Teach you the way to die!” | |
| |
| I never saw so sad a look | |
| As the poor youngster cast, | 50 |
| When the hot smoke of cannon | |
| In cloud and whirlwind pass’d. | |
| Earth shook, and Heaven answer’d; | |
| I watch’d his eagle eye, | |
| As he faintly moan’d, “The Forty-third | 55 |
| Teach me the way to die!” | |
| |
| Then, with a musket for a crutch, | |
| He limp’d unto the fight; | |
| I, with a bullet in my hip, | |
| Had neither strength nor might. | 60 |
| But, proudly beating on his drum, | |
| A fever in his eye, | |
| I heard him moan “The Forty-third | |
| Taught me the way to die!” | |
| |
| They found him on the morrow, | 65 |
| Stretch’d on a heap of dead; | |
| His hand was in the grenadier’s | |
| Who at his bidding bled. | |
| They hung a medal round his neck, | |
| And clos’d his dauntless eye; | 70 |
| On the stone they cut, “The Forty-third | |
| Taught him the way to die!” | |
| |
| ’T is forty years from then till now— | |
| The grave gapes at my feet— | |
| Yet when I think of such a boy | 75 |
| I feel my old heart beat. | |
| And from my sleep I sometimes wake, | |
| Hearing a feeble cry, | |
| A a voice that says, “Now, Forty-third, | |
| Teach me the way to die!” | 80 |
| |
