“Mother,” he said, “if I were old,
My arm should win the young ones gold—
A boy’s life may be dearly sold.
“Mother, the hearts of the children bleed,
There are lips enough for one hand to feed,
And the youngest born have the greater need.”
In the year of battles, ninety-three,
In Vendée by the westward sea,
He rode to fight for liberty.
They wondered how his stedfast eye
Could see the strong men bleed and die,
His shrill lips shape the battle cry.
At Chollet, in the month Frimaire
They found the lion in his lair,
And long the struggle wavered there.
Till wide and scattered, man with man,
The bloody waves of battle ran,
The boy was leading in the van.
His bugle at his waist he wore,
His sword-arm pointing straight before,
And on his brow the tricolore.
Horse and rider overthrown,
Lay about him stark as stone,
The bugle boy stood all alone.
They closed about him menacing,
To strike him seemed a murderous thing;
“Take life, cry homage to the King!”
Fearless their bayonets he eyed,
The dead he loved were at his side,
And “Vive la République,” he cried.