Ten thousan' ghosts o' that bloody day was marchin'
through his brain
An' his feet they kind o' picked their way as if
they felt the slain.
An' I grabbed his hand, an' says I to Bill, "Don't
ye 'member me?
I'm yer father—don't ye know me? How frightened
ye seem to be!"
But the boy kep' a-whisperin' to himself, as if
'twas all he knew,