He bore it well against the French, nine years before he died—”
As thus she spoke my mother’s voice grew tremulous in tone—
“And when you use it, lest your foe in lingering anguish moan,
Sight at a point two fingers’ length beneath the collar-bone.
Now, go! my heart, as thus we part, thrills with a mother’s pain;
To save you from a single pang, its latest drop I’d drain;
But—show the courage of your sire, or come not here again!”
We started, six of us in all; we made to camp our way,
And found the forces drawn in line, at two o’clock that day,
In front of where, on Walloomscoick, intrenched the foemen lay.