Robert W. Service
It was the little bare- foot boy who came with cup abrim And walked up to the dying man, and gave the drink to him.
A roar of rage! They seize the boy; they tear him fast
away.
The Prussian Major swings around; no longer is he gay. His teeth are wolfishly agleam ; his face all dark with
spite: iT^4^i
Go, shoot the brat/ he snarls, that dare defy our
Prussian might. Yet stay! I have another thought. I ll kindly be, and
spare ; Quick ! give the lad a rifle charged, and set him squarely
there, And bid him shoot, and shoot to kill. Haste ! make him
understand The dying dog he fain would save shall perish by his
hand; And all his kindred they shall see, and all shall curse his
name, Who bought his life at such a cost, the price of death
and shame.
They brought the boy, wild-eyed with fear; they made
him understand ;
They stood him by the dying man, a rifle in his hand. Make haste ! said they ; the time is short, and you must
kill or die.
The Major puffed his cigarette, amusement in his eye. And then the dying Zouave heard, and raised his weary
head : Shoot, son, twill be the best for both; shoot swift and
straight, he said; Fire first and last, and do not flinch, for lost to hope
am I ; And I will murmur : Vive La France ! and bless you ere
I die.
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