Oh! better far for thee, my blest,
Beneath the daisy's turf to rest.”
The words her lips are scarcely past,
When round her arms are kindly cast;
A foeman's wife with pitying face,
The mother and the child embrace.
With glowing cheek, with brimming eyes,
“Give me thy son!” she earnest cries;
“And haste thee! for the moments press--
They spare thee but a brief caress!”
She's gone, and other care shall shield
The all-unconscious happy child;
Who laughs when glitt'ring foemen come,
And shouts at roll of hostile drum.
But still his friend with instinct true
Has robed him in his red and blue!
And — mantle fit!--has o'er him thrown
The flag 'neath which the boy was born!