The Devil of war has dimmed the sky with the
breath of his iron lungs,
And he gluts his ear on the note of fear in the cry
of the fevered tongues;
Like the toll of a bell at the gate of hell is the wail
of the fevered tongues.
One rising, walked from the bullet shock, seems to
reel 'neath the weight of his head,
He feels for his gun and starts to run and falls in a
hollow—dead.