He never could wrestle, this boy, though in spirit as brave as the best;
Narrow-chested, a little, you notice, like him who has long been at rest.
Too slender for over much study—why, his master has made him to-day
Go out with his ball on the common—and you have drafted a child at his play!
"Not a patriot?" Fie! Did I wimper when Robert stood up with his gun,
And the hero-blood chafed in his forehead, the evening we heard of Bull Run?
Pointing his finger at Harry, but turning his eyes to the wall,
"There's a staff growing up for your age, mother," said Robert, "if I am to fall."
"Eighteen?" Oh I know! And yet narrowly; just a wee babe on the day
When his father got up from a sick-bed and cast his last ballot for Clay.