 | A little book of tribune verse |  |
158
THE WARRIOR.
Under the window is a man,
Playing an organ all the day,
Grinding as only a cripple can,
In a moody, vague, uncertain way.
Playing an organ all the day,
Grinding as only a cripple can,
In a moody, vague, uncertain way.
His coat is blue and upon his face
Is a look of highborn, restless pride,
There is somewhat about him of martial grace
And an empty sleeve hangs at his side.
Is a look of highborn, restless pride,
There is somewhat about him of martial grace
And an empty sleeve hangs at his side.
“Tell me, warrior bold and true,
In what carnage, night or day,
Came the merciless shot to you,
Bearing your good, right arm away?”
In what carnage, night or day,
Came the merciless shot to you,
Bearing your good, right arm away?”
Fire dies out in the patriot's eye,
Changed my warrior's tone and mien,
Choked by emotion he makes reply,
“Kansas—harvest—threshing machine!”
Changed my warrior's tone and mien,
Choked by emotion he makes reply,
“Kansas—harvest—threshing machine!”
April 1st, 1882.
| A little book of tribune verse | |