THE MISCREANT
By permission of the author
It was a slender Belgian lad,
A child to make a father glad,
Negligent, he stood beside
The highway, stretching white and wide;
Thence had come but yesterday
The Uhlans riding on their way;
And now was heard, in steady beat,
A rising sound of marching feet.
They came, a mass of gray pulsating,
Steady-moving, palpitating,
On with unrelenting tread:
Spiked the helmet on each head,
Straight each gun, each eye, each stride,
Each belt, each knapsack coincide,
A bayonet rattled at each side.
The word rang, "Halt," and at the sound
The rifle butts thud on the ground.
"Come here, my boy," the Captain cried,
"Last night, a certain Belgian died;
And why, would'st know? that Belgian lied.
Now, tell me, thou, and tell me true—
Lest such a fate befall thee, too—
Look squarely at me, hold thee still:
Lie Belgian troops on yonder hill?"
The boy nor flinched nor caught his breath,
