Polyphemus

’Twas a sick young man with a face ungay And an eye that was all alone; And he shook his head in a hopeless way As he sat on a roadside stone.

“O, ailing youth, what untoward fate Has made the sun to set On your mirth and eye?” “I’m constrained to state I’m an ex-West Point cadet.

“ ’Twas at cannon-practice I got my hurt And my present frame of mind; For the gun went off with a double spurt— Before it, and also behind!

“How sad, how sad, that a fine young chap, When studying how to kill, Should meet with so terrible a mishap Precluding eventual skill.

“Ah, woeful to think that a weapon made For mowing down the foe Should commit so dreadful an escapade As to turn about to mow!”

No more he heeded while I condoled: He was wandering in his mind; His lonely eye unconsidered rolled, And his views he thus defined:

“ ’Twas O for a breach of the peace—’twas O For an international brawl! But a piece of the breech—ah no, ah no, I didn’t want that at all.”