And women, that would groan to see a child
Pull off an insect’s leg, all read of war,
The best amusement for our morning’s meal!
The poor wretch, who has learnt his only prayers
For curses, who knows scarcely words enough
To ask a blessing from his Heavenly Father,
Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute
And technical in victories and defeat,
And all our dainty terms for fratricide;
Terms which we trundle smoothly o’er our tongues,