And thence comes a story—a memory, too.
Will I tell it? Why, yes, I don’t care if I do.
I was merely lieutenant—I never wore stars,
Though it rained brigadiers at the time; and my scars
Were got in the hours when I fought on my feet,
And lucky to keep them at moments when sleet
From some thousands of muskets upon us fell fast,
And each breath that we drew seemed like drawing the last,
And the foeman kept plying his bullets and shell,
And to right and to left comrades they staggered and fell.