Classic Poem

In a dark and gloomy region,
Halting for a short night's rest,
Were the soldiers of a legion,
Now victorious, now hard pressed:
Wronged and wounded men, dear reader —
Hearts they stilled and wounds they bound,
Round about a drunken leader
Who was stretched upon the ground.

But they spoke no word of sorrow,
And no bitter word was said,
For they knew he'd lead to-morrow,
And they pillowed up his head;
And they stretched the canvas o'er him —
Soldier of the Lower Lands!
Freed men had knelt down before him,
Rescued women kissed his hands.

Scars upon his face grew vivid
As they piled the firewood on,
And a long one showing livid
Told of one deed he had done.
Spite of drink his chin held tightly —
Never sign of fear or guilt —
Hands upon his breast lay lightly,
Fingers curved to grasp a hilt.

Discipline was slackened never,
Watch they set, and watch they kept,
Cleaned their arms the same as ever,
While their drunken leader slept.
For his captains, calm and steady,
Knew how swiftly he'd reform
And surveyed as theirs already
Yonder heights that he would storm.