Playing an organ all the day—
Grinding as only a cripple can,
In a moody, vague, uncertain way.
His coat is blue and upon his face
Is a look of high-born, restless pride—
There is somewhat about him of martial grace
And an empty sleeve hangs at his side.
“Tell me, warrior, bold and true,
In what carnage, night or day,
Came the merciless shot to you,