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And so when he reached my bed
      The General made a stand:
"My brave young fellow," he said,
            "I would shake your hand."

So I lifted my arm, the right,
      With never a hand at all;
Only a stump, a sight
            Fit to appal.

"Well, well. Now that's too bad!
      That's sorrowful luck," he said;
"But there! You give me, my lad,
            The left instead."

So from under the blanket's rim
      I raised and showed him the other,
A snag as ugly and grim
            As its ugly brother.

He looked at each jagged wrist;
      He looked, but he did not speak;
And then he bent down and kissed
            Me on either cheek.

You wonder now I don't mind
      I hadn't a hand to offer. . . .
They tell me (you know I'm blind)
            'Twas Grand-Père Joffre.