My father, that hero with the sad sweet smile, With that brave hussar who of all he knew First chosen was as comrade tried and true, Traversed as guard a broken field, a while After the battle. A low moaning sound Chanced to his ears. A Spaniard there he saw, Wounded unto the death. That stronger law Than nations' borders his wine flask unbound; The hussar stooped to aid the clawing hand. The wine flask first he seized, then as inspired With vigor at the touch, released it, scanned The uniforms—his pistol grasped, and fired! The horse reared high. His cap shot from his head, "Give the poor man a drink," my father said. |