He dropped,--more sullenly than wearily, Lay stupid like a cod, heavy like meat, And none of us could kick him to his feet;Just blinked at my revolver, blearily;
Didn't appear to know a war was on, Or see the blasted trench at which he stared.
"I'll do 'em in," he whined, "If this hand's spared, I'll murder them, I will."A low voice said, "It's Blighty, p'raps, he sees; his pluck's all gone, Dreaming of all the valiant, that ~aren't~ dead:
Bold uncles, smiling ministerially;
Maybe his brave young wife, getting her fun In some new home, improved materially.
It's not these stiffs have crazed him; nor the Hun."We sent him down at last, out of the way.
Unwounded;--stout lad, too, before that strafe.
Malingering? Stretcher-bearers winked, "Not half!"Next day I heard the Doc.'s well-whiskied laugh:
"That scum you sent last night soon died. Hooray!"
