But no, sir, he rallied. We bore him away,
When we crossed o’er the river, ere break of the day,
Where our surgeon soon healed up his wound, and I nursed
The boy, and grew fond where I’d liked from the first,
Till, ready for prison, but hating confine,
He fled one dark night and got over the line;
And I never laid eyes on my bold shaver since.
That’s his sword, and a weapon would honor a prince.
You smile at the story—I’ve seen you, but where?
What name did you carry? “George Gaston!”—well—there!