Here lays a leg, and there a leg—I mean, you know, a stockin—
Bodies all slit and torn to rags, and many a tattered skirt,
And arms burnt off and sides and backs all scotched and black with dirt;
But as nobody was in 'em—none but—nobody was hurt!
Well, there I am, a scrambling up the things, all in a lump.
When, mercy on us! such a groan as makes my heart to jump.
And there she is, a-lying with a crazy sort of eye,
A staring at the wash-house roof, laid open to the sky:
Then she beckons with a finger, and so down to her I reaches,
And puts my ear agin her mouth to hear her dying speeches,