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Rh Wielded by some brave adversary—die On blood-stained turf, not on a fever-bed, A point upon my lips, a point within my heart.

I'm hungry!

All your thoughts of meat and drink! Bertrand the fifer!—you were shepherd once,— Draw from its double leathern case your fife, Play to these greedy, guzzling soldiers. Play Old country airs with plaintive rhythm recurring, Where lurk sweet echoes of the dear home-voices, Each note of which calls like a little sister, Those airs slow, slow ascending, as the smoke-wreaths Rise from the hearthstones of our native hamlets,

Their music strikes the ear like Gascon patois!…

Your flute was now a warrior in durance; But on its stem your fingers are a-dancing A bird-like minuet! O flute! Remember That flutes were made of reeds first, not laburnum; Make us a music pastoral days recalling—

The soul-time of your youth, in country pastures!

Hark to the music, Gascons!… 'Tis no longer The piercing fife of camp—but 'neath his fingers The flute of the woods! No more the call to combat,