  The destined bullet wounded him, They brought him down to die, Far-off a bugle sounded him “Retreat,” Good-bye. Strange, that from ways so hated, And tyranny so hard Should come this strangely fated And farewell word. He thought, “Some Old Sweat might Have thrilled at heart to hear, Gone down into the night Too proud to fear! But I—the fool at arms, Musician, poet to boot, Who hail release; what charms In this salute?” He smiled—“The latest jest That time on me shall play.” And watched the dying west, Went out with the day. |
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