THE WOUNDED SOLDIER IN THE CONVENT
What is that clanging noise I hear
Through the still convent ringing?
It is the carriage-ambulance
A wounded soldier bringing.
Upon his coat the blood-spots shine;
He limps—a shell has caught him—
His gun he uses for a crutch,
Descending, to support him.
A veteran he, with fierce moustache—
The triple stripes he's wearing—
All prudes and hypocrites he loathes,
And starts by loudly swearing.
Well-nigh insulting are his looks,
With ill-bred gibes he rallies
The novices—beneath their caps
They blush at his coarse sallies.
If at his side, thinking he sleeps,
The sister breathes a prayer,
Straightway astir he fills his pipe
And whistles a bored air.
What use to him their faithful watch,
The care that never ceases?
